


Bad Medicine

by playout



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A bit of angst to keep things interesting, Fluff, HP: EWE, Harry gets injured a lot and quite badly once, Humor, M/M, Slash, Smut, What more do you need?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-03-29 20:17:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 25,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3909259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playout/pseuds/playout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As an Auror, Harry is no stranger to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries but he has reached his limit with his confidential information appearing in the Prophet after every visit. He's angry enough to give even his childhood nemesis's private practice a go. At least if Harry's secrets show up in the paper now, he'll know who to hex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As with most of my fics, I'm writing this story as I go along. As such, please be advised that the tags and rating may be updated at any time. I will give a heads up in the chapter notes if I make any significant changes.
> 
> For anyone who takes issue with Hermione and Ron moving past Draco's crimes/bad choices, not only does that happen in this fic, but it largely takes place before the story even starts. Fair warning.

"How are you feeling, Harry?" Hermione asked solicitously as she fluffed the pillows behind his back, unintentionally smothering him with her bushy hair. At least it smelled pleasantly of coconut Harry thought while he spat out the oppressive curls. 

Kreacher glared silently at Hermione from the shadow of the armoire; he would be re-fluffing those pillows as soon as she left. The fact that he had been forbidden from saying anything nasty to her didn't stop the bitter house-elf from giving her the nastiest expressions his puckered face was capable of (which were really _quite_ nasty). Hermione, for her part, ignored him entirely.

Harry expelled a long-suffering sigh. "I'm all right. It's going to be a right pain not being able to use my hands for a week, though. Thank Merlin I know a bit of wandless magic."

He hated being dependent on others to take care of him. He was only letting Hermione fuss over him now because he knew it soothed her worry. He'd taught himself how to dress, eat, use the loo, and bathe relying almost exclusively on magic after the ridiculous number of times he had been incapacitated in the line of duty since becoming a field Auror almost four years ago.

Hermione had given him an earful about getting seriously injured yet again, but how was he supposed to know that bloody safe house door had the flagrante curse and a permanent sticking charm woven into the wards? Ron had a point, he supposed, that Harry didn't always have to be the first one in. But then someone else would have had his hands burned down to the bone. Someone who didn't have the mastery of wandless magic that Harry did.

It was better this way. He would heal up, get back to work, and be the first one through the _next_ booby trapped door. He might get nicked, but he always recovered. It was kind of his thing.

"A whole _week_?" Ron winced in sympathy. "Bloody hell. I hope you know a wandless spell for wanking."

Harry snickered.

In point of fact, he had done some intimate experimenting--with moderate success--the last time he'd been laid up for several days, but Ron definitely didn't need to know about that.

An appalled Hermione stridently scolded, " _Ronald!_ " which only made the men laugh harder. She huffed a breath, apparently resigned to her existence stuck with two irredeemable morons. "Do you want me to take a look at your bandages?" she asked Harry primly, trying to change the subject.

He held them up for inspection. His blistered hands were bulky with gauze, the bandages that held them in place wound from his elbows to his fingertips. Besides being ruddy inconvenient, they seemed fine. "Nah. I'm supposed to go back to St. Mungo's on Wednesday to have them changed. They should hold up ok until then." 

Hermione and Ron shared a guilty look that immediately put Harry on high alert.

"Um...mate?" Ron began hesitantly.

 _No! No no no no_ , Harry's internal voice protested. "Not _again_!" he begged aloud, dreading the answer.

Ron nodded gravely. "'fraid so. Front page of the morning edition."

" _ **Fuck!**_ Fuck that fucking hospital!" Harry slammed his hands down on the duvet and then nearly sicked up at the shocking white pain that shot through his raw, exposed, still-healing nerves.

He was so angry he could hardly see straight. Every damn time he went to St. Mungo's, all the details of the visit ended up in the Daily Prophet, usually by the end of the day.

His height, his weight, his vitals (small, average, and healthy, respectively). What a lovely cock he possessed (that had been an especially infuriating one). His manner toward the staff (surly, as of late). All the gory details of the injury. And often sensitive information about the case to boot. ('But doesn't the public have a right to know when fugitive Dark Wizards are on the loose?' Skeeter had argued. _Not when printing that information puts more lives at risk!_ ).

Harry had met with the hospital administration and a bevy of solicitors for mediation. He had threatened legal action. He had gone through with legal action. He had even given a bloody interview to the paper pleading for the confidentiality that every other citizen was entitled to. But it made no difference.

St. Mungo's official stance was one of regret and dismay. Mediwitches and wizards had been summarily terminated, but Harry suspected they weren't the source of the leaks in every case, just unfortunate blighters low enough in the hierarchy to be easily expendable. The hospital had offered him monetary restitution but he didn't need the galleons and really that just made the situation no different than when the Prophet tried to buy the stories from him directly (except in _that_ case his most basic patient's rights weren't being violated).

Ron leaned forward in his chair, elbows braced on wide-set knees, expression earnest. "Hermione and I have been talking about it and... _Bugger it_." He looked like he was sucking lemons. "Harry, I think you should give Malfoy's place a go."

" _What_?! Not you, too!"

Harry couldn't believe this was happening. Hermione had been trying to convince him to visit Malfoy's private practice in Diagon Alley for months because of the on-going problems with St. Mungo's. Harry's answer was a **hard** no and Ron had been on his side since the beginning.

 _Emphasis on had_, he corrected mutinously.

"Look," Ron argued, "he's been in business more than a year and I haven't heard one bad word about his practice. And the office he worked in in Madrid has a great reputation. And you know Whitman? He's started going there and he said it's all very posh and state of the art."

Harry glowered. "Whitman is exactly the kind of pureblood prat Malfoy caters to," he said irritably. "I don't need a complementary mineral water or sodding neck rub with my exam!" (Malfoy's pretentious adverts made a big to-do about all their luxury amenities.)

Ron held up placating hands, palms turned outward. Apparently Hermione was content to let him try reasoning with the unreasonable one for a change.

Harry stewed.

"Of course not, mate. I'm not saying you do. But that VIP service also includes a commitment to protecting your privacy and you deserve that. Everyone does. And it isn't like you can't afford it."

Harry dropped his head back into the pillows with an angry groan. He felt entitled to the juvenile display;  first his hands, then fucking Mungo's, and now his best friends had turned on him. "It's not about the money!" he grated out, staring furiously at the cracks in his ceiling and reminding himself that they meant well. "It's that it's _Malfoy_. What makes you think he's going to be any better than those rats at the hospital? He hates me!"

Cue Hermione. "He _hated_ you, Harry," she interjected calmly. "When we were kids. He is now a professional businessman and it would be incredibly foolish of him to turn you down as a client. If you don't trust his maturity, then you can at least trust his selfish ambition."

Harry lifted a hand to pull at his hair, belatedly remembering that his hands were useless. Bloody buggering hell.

"We're not making this suggestion lightly, mate," Ron added beseechingly. "I took a lot of convincing. 'Mione has done all sorts of research. Malfoy's training checks out. His clients have been nothing but happy with his services. And he's kept his nose clean since Hogwarts. Hell, he's practically a model citizen with all those charitable donations and volunteering on the Hogwarts rebuilding efforts and stuff."

Harry let his head loll to the side so he was looking at Ron but he didn't bother keeping his raging skepticism off it.

Ron took heart anyway. "Do I think he's motivated by anything other than improving his image and status? Of course not. And do I still think he's an enormous wanker? _Absolutely_. But if that enormous wanker can put you back together after a mission and keep his bloody mouth shut about it, well, I think it's worth a try."

He and Hermione both turned imploring eyes on Harry, who cursed his weakness for his friends' concern.  

Regretting the words even as he said them, he grudgingly replied, "I'll _think_ about it."

He wasn't making any other promises, though.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry did think about it. Almost against his will. Being off active duty meant he had loads of time and very little to do with it but think. And the more he thought about it, the less crazy it seemed.

Rather, he still found the idea of hiring Malfoy completely barmy, but he was so fed up with St. Mungo's he was willing to try almost anything. Including letting his former arch nemesis near him with a wand in hand.

He cancelled his Wednesday appointment at the hospital and made one with Malfoy's receptionist (Pansy Parkinson, of all people) under a glamour and with a false name. He gave as little information as possible and she didn't pry, which was refreshing. The only really challenging part was that the office required a reference letter from Gringotts verifying his ability to pay. (Merlin's tits, Malfoy must bleed his clients dry.) It had taken a bit of finagling to get the goblins to write one with the name he'd given Parkinson, but he managed.

When Wednesday rolled around, Harry dressed himself with an odd combination of foreboding and frizzy anticipation making his pulse irregular and his spellwork sloppy. He had to do up his buttons three times just to get them all in the right holes.

It had been a while since he'd been to Diagon and he had time to spare (and a surplus of nervous energy), so he decided to walk around the shops before his appointment rather than Flooing directly to Malfoy's office. He forewent a glamour but applied a strong notice-me-not charm (holding his wand awkwardly between his two bandaged hands) and Flooed to the Leaky.

Hannah gave him a warm hug and her condolences when he arrived and asked if he planned to stay for a bite. Harry had to decline on account of his hands, which was a real shame because Hannah's shepherds pie was excellent. He left his regards for Neville and made his way out to the bustling street.

His notice-me-not held up well, even when a harried witch with three small boys in tow accidentally bumped into him. There was no recognition in her eyes as she hastily apologized; her attention never truly leaving her frenetic children. Harry was glad for it.

He walked quickly past the Owl Emporium but stopped in at Ollivander's to say hullo. Ollivander wanted to inspect Harry's wand--he always did--and was pleased to see that it was as lively and responsive as it had been that first day in the shop.

A few steps down the road from the wandmaker's brought Harry to the front of Fortescue's. He gazed longingly through the window--there was a sizable line even on this chilly day--but he had to abandon the notion of ice cream for the same reason as Hannah's pie.

He paid a visit to George, of course, and suffered through the predictable ribbing that awaited him. At least he left with a sugar quill tucked into his bandages that he could munch on as he walked.

He didn't let himself go in to Broomstix--his broom was perfectly fine and he hardly ever used it anyway--but he did drool over the latest models prominently displayed in the shop front. He resolved to take his neglected Firebolt out for a spin as soon as his hands were healed.

His wandering eventually brought him near to Malfoy's office. He glanced at the clock tower and noted that it was nearly time for his appointment, so he made his way over to the surprisingly tasteful entry.

He'd expected Malfoy's name in big, bold letters and, like, chandeliers or something illuminating the doorway, but the tidy limestone façade was unadorned save for a clean, white door, a white-trimmed window, and a small wooden sign that said 'Healer on Diagon' in plain white script.

Feeling a sudden frisson of trepidation, Harry knocked as best he could with his foot (using the top of his shoe so as to avoid leaving a scuff mark). He was caught by surprise when Malfoy himself answered.

His grey eyes widened and the amiable smile he'd been wearing disappeared entirely as recognition dawned, but he caught himself and set his features into a stern mask. "No. Absolutely not," he said and promptly shut the door in Harry's face.

Harry spluttered at the indignity, then knocked again after recovering from his shock. 

...No answer.

More insistently this time.

...Still nothing.

"Malfoy!" he called. "Malfoy, open up!"

He was beginning to draw stares. Which is exactly the kind of attention he was trying to avoid by coming here in the first place. _Ugh_.

"I just want to talk," he pleaded through the door. "Come on, Malfoy. _Please_?"

Harry heard the muffled sound of conversation inside.

After a minute, Malfoy cracked the door open. "What," he said tersely.

"Can I come in?" Harry implored, looking meaningfully around at the assembled gawkers. "I was led to believe you value your clients' privacy."

Malfoy appeared to war with himself over that comment but finally he stepped aside for Harry to come through and closed the door firmly behind them.

Harry looked around the office, Auror training compelling him to memorize his surroundings and assess for threats in all situations and at all times.

The waiting room was neat and modern. Clean white walls, leather furniture in a shiny mocha, and a sleek desk beside the Floo cleverly positioned such that Parkinson could take a firecall without getting up. Malfoy's license to practice was framed on the wall behind the desk--he'd studied in France, apparently. A few green house plants and watercolor paintings softened the otherwise austere interior.

Parkinson looked like Christmas had come early as her brown eyes darted eagerly between Harry and Malfoy. She checked the appointment book and greeted, "Mr. Bond, I presume?" with a terribly amused twist to her red painted lips. Harry inclined his head. (He had thought the name funny at the time and figured the reference would be lost on purebloods).

Malfoy strode between them and crossed him arms impatiently over his white lab coat. He wore tan slacks and a charcoal grey dress shirt beneath it. Harry was amazed that he dressed so much like a muggle doctor--he'd expected robes similar to the Healers at St. Mungo's. Maybe it was a habit Malfoy had picked up on the Continent.

"What is it that you want?" he asked curtly.

Harry held up his bandaged hands for an answer. "What does anyone want who comes here?" he replied, exasperated. Malfoy eyed them critically then snapped his gaze back to Harry's face.

He studied Harry a moment before opining, "It was incredibly stupid of you to open that door without first checking for traps." _Charming._ "Don't you have any competent Curse-Breakers in the Ministry or did Gringots hire them all out from under you?"

Parkinson tittered. Harry ground his teeth.

"The fact that you have that information on which to base your insults is the reason I'm here," he grated out. "I was told you were professional. Unlike St. Mungo's."

Something flashed in Malfoy's eyes that Harry was unable to place and he straightened his already-stiff posture to his full height. Malfoy was taller than he'd been in school, several centimetres taller than Harry, and his expression was severe.

Fortunately for Harry, he wasn't easily intimidated.

"I _am_ a professional, Potter," he stated tightly. "And I run a respectable business, unlike that bloated farce of an institution." He dropped his hands to his sides. "If you are truly here for medical care, I can provide it. And I won't sell your secrets to the press." His tone went the slightest bit arch when he said, "I'll be making more than enough galleons off you through my regular service fees."

Harry snorted. At least the prat was up front about price gouging his clientele.

"That works for me," he replied honestly. "I just need these bandages changed today, but since you read The Prophet, you are probably aware that I'm something of a regular customer when it comes to medical care. Hazard of the job."

Malfoy cocked a brow, but didn't challenge him. That was a good sign, Harry thought. He sniffed and said, "Very well. I'll just need a moment to prepare the exam room. Make yourself comfortable." And with that he disappeared through a door on the other side of the waiting room, lab coat swishing behind him in a strange reprise of Snape's trademark exit.

Feeling off-balance, Harry took a seat and attempted to take mental stock. He found himself thrown by Malfoy's switch to clinical professionalism. He'd half-expected to be tossed out on his arse with nowhere to turn but Mungo's. He wasn't entirely prepared to actually be seen by Malfoy.

And there was something else contributing to his sense of unease. In addition to being taller than he remembered, Malfoy was more attractive. He'd returned from the Continent with a tan Harry hadn't known he was capable of producing, a decent amount of muscle that made his sharp angles...not so sharp, and a mild attitude improvement over the temperamental twat he'd been in school.

Harry had always thought Malfoy was fit, but that was offset by his extreme prattishness. To suddenly be interacting with a Malfoy who _wasn't_ acting like a total knob was--

" _Cabernet_?" Parkinson offered cheekily, startling Harry out of his thoughts. He glanced up to find her holding the stem of a wineglass between her sharply pointed nails (red to match her lips). Her smile was equally as pointed.

"Uh, no, thanks," he replied unsteadily. "Just the bandages will be fine."

Parkinson sighed. "Pity. I give an excellent neck and shoulder massage," she pouted. Harry didn't miss the sparkle in her eyes--she was baiting him.

She took a rather large sip of the drink she'd just offered and studied him over the rim of the glass, expression as worrisome as Hermione's when an idea was taking root. There was no way Harry would be letting her put her claws anywhere on his person, today or ever.

"Maybe next time," he said insincerely.

Parkinson shrugged and turned her attention to a glossy magazine--Witch Weekly by the look of it. She took another sip from the glass, leaving a bright red lipstick stain behind.

Harry cleared his throat and glanced around the room, searching in vain for something interesting to look at that wasn't Parkinson. He jiggled his foot as he waited impatiently. _What's taking so long?_ _It's not like he has another client in there._

After what felt like an eternity, Malfoy opened the exam room door. "I'm ready to see you now, Mr. Bond," he announced, glibly playing along with Harry's ruse.

"Erm, Potter's fine. I just didn't want to give my real name over the Floo in case you decided not to see me without first speaking to me."

"Shrewd," was all Malfoy said about what could have easily been interpreted as a slight. Then, "Very well, Mr. _Potter_ , right this way."

Harry followed, clearing a throat that felt uncomfortably dry. As he passed the desk, Parkinson held up the half-empty glass to him, expression wry. Harry nearly stumbled. He then shook his head with an obvious and deliberate  _no_. She smirked and had another swallow. Daft bint.

Merlin, what had he gotten himself into?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many followers already! You guuuuys! ::blush::
> 
> Special thanks to diddleymaz for some helpful Brit picking in the first two chapters.

The room appeared to be fairly typical by medical standards but, with the exception of the exam table, the furniture and fixtures were like what one would find in a house. A rather nice house.

There was a sink, a floor lamp, an end table, two mocha chairs that matched the ones in the waiting room, a ficus, and a very muggle rolling stool.

Malfoy must have seen Harry's look of surprise. "That's what we used in Madrid," he explained affably. "The wheels are just too convenient to pass up."

"Is that the reason for the lab coat, as well?" Harry asked, seizing the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity while Malfoy persisted in his abnormal politeness.

A self-satisfied smirk quirked at the edges of his mouth. (Harry forced himself not to stare at said mouth.) "No, the coat is merely an artifice. I still prefer robes, but everything in this office has been carefully selected to present an atmosphere of otherness from St. Mungo's. For those who might be mistrustful of my Parisian training, I spin it as exotic, rather than foreign, and cutting edge, in contrast to the backwater traditionalism of the hospital. When, in reality, magical medical practice is quite standardized across the whole of Europe."

That was unexpectedly candid. Who was this man and what had he done with Draco Malfoy?

"Why _did_ you study on the Continent?" Harry inquired.

Malfoy's eyes clouded and his smile disappeared. Pity _._ "St. Mungo's wouldn't take me, although I far exceeded their admission requirements." He cleared his throat and continued in a lighter tone, "But that is their loss. Not only did they miss out on a handsome and gifted Healer, but I got to train and practice in two of the world's foremost centers of art and culture. And I intend to steal all their best patients away."

Harry chuckled in spite of himself. Whoever this Malfoy imposter was, he wasn't half bad. 

"I appreciate the honesty," he grinned. The expression made his glasses slide down his nose; he bumped them back up as best he could with the thick wad of cotton covering his fingers. "If you keep your word about respecting my confidentiality, you stand a chance of making enough money off me to build yourself a fancy summer home in whatever cultural center you please."

Malfoy's answering smile was the first Harry had seen on him that had no secondary emotion or motive attached to it. It was simply pleased. And that...Godrick, it was a dangerous thing. Harry could only hope Malfoy wouldn't use it often.

"I will keep my word," he committed.

Harry experienced a vague sense of surreality. He believed him.

"Now," said Malfoy, back to business, "since we are only looking at your hands today, you do not have to sit on the exam table. Unless you want to, I suppose."

That was decided improvement over St. Mungo's, then. Harry hated sitting on the tables, all exposed and with nowhere to lean. It was awkward and uncomfortable and he couldn't help feeling that was rather the point sometimes--just another way for pretentious Healers to lord their superiority over their patients.

"No, thanks. The chair is good," he replied, taking a seat in the one nearest him.

Malfoy seated himself on the stool and glided over with an efficient pull of his long legs.

"Ordinarily, I would require a full physical for a new patient," he explained before coming to a stop directly in front of Harry, "but seeing as St. Mungo's has thoughtfully provided me (and all of wizardkind) with the pertinent information, we can skip the formality. Good on you for your excellent blood pressure and cholesterol levels, by the way," he smirked.

Harry appreciated the concession--especially because the idea of Malfoy giving him a physical was more than a little nerve-racking at the moment--but he bristled at the reminder of the circumstances that had driven him there.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not talk about the hospital or the Prophet," he said stiffly.

The teasing edge to Malfoy's face was replaced with contrition. "I understand, Mr. Potter. My apologies."

Harry was rendered speechless by the formal apology. If he had had any idea Malfoy would be like this, he would have given St. Mungo's the two-fingered salute ages ago.

Malfoy held out his hands, palms up (Harry noted that they were long, narrow, and smooth, almost the exact opposite of his own). "How about I take a look at those bandages," he prompted cordially.

Harry shifted forward in his chair and presented his hands. Malfoy took them gently and began unwinding the bandages, first the left, then the right. (Harry shivered under the intensity of his gaze). He then gingerly peeled back the layers of gauze. Harry couldn't stop a sucking hiss when some of his new skin went with it.

"Sorry." Malfoy inspected the raw spots and tsked. "Whoever put those on you should be fired. There's no excuse for allowing them to adhere like that. Here, this should help." He brandished his wand with a flourish and a soothing wash of healing magic immediately calmed the angry sting, leaving a cool tingle behind.

"That's a handy spell," Harry remarked, contemplating the lightness and the fineness of Malfoy's hair as the blond head bowed over his hands. 

"Indeed," Malfoy replied without looking up. He circled his fingers around Harry's forearms--well above the burns--to turn his arms and continue the examination.

It may have simply been a product of the contrast between his body heat and the coolness of the spell, but Harry's skin fairly burned where Malfoy touched him. He idly wondered how that touch might feel elsewhere on his body but he put a hasty stop to that train of thought when he realized how inappropriate it was on a multitude of levels (not the least of which being it was _Malfoy_ he was thinking about).

He coughed to relieve the awkward tension that threatened to manifest as a blush.

Malfoy glanced up, peering at Harry through his lashes and a loose bit of fringe. Merlin, that wasn't helping anything. "Did Pansy not offer you a beverage?" he asked obligingly (still holding Harry's arms).

Harry had to clear his throat again to make his vocal cords work. "It's a bit early for wine," he demurred.

Malfoy's brow furrowed in confusion. "What about a mineral water? Or an herbal tea?"

"Oh. I wasn't aware those were options..."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "That is because my receptionist is a lush," he declared with fond irritation. "Can I get you something to drink that is reasonable for this time of day?"

He still hadn't let go. Harry was beginning to worry his arms would be permanently branded where Malfoy clasped them.

He shook his head. "No, that's all right. Thank you, anyway."

"Suit yourself," Malfoy replied, finally releasing him, almost as an afterthought. (Harry immediately missed the stunning heat.) "Your hands seem to be healing well. They're tender enough to need bandaging for another couple of days but you should be ready to return to work as early as Friday."

"Brilliant."

Harry was at a loss for where to put his eyes while Malfoy set to work on new wrappings--he was appealing, but too risky. Harry's hands were out of the question because the sight of the puffy pink skin made him queasy. The walls were boring as all get out. Without any better options, the ficus would have to do.

He fidgeted in his seat and restrained a nervous hum. 

"All set," Malfoy announced a short while later. He sat up and flashed a winsome smile.

Harry's heart skipped a beat. He scolded the wayward organ sternly. 

"That was surprisingly not horrible," he proclaimed, looking his new bandages over.

Malfoy snorted. "High praise from the Saviour of the Wizarding World."

Harry grunted. "If you agree never to call me that again, I'll pay ten percent over whatever your regular fees are," he offered in full seriousness.

"Careful, Potter. You might be paying for an extensive remodel of my flat on top of that summer home in Versailles before too long."

Harry rose from his seat and shrugged. "Have Parkinson send the bill directly to Gringotts. The peace of mind is worth whatever you charge."

Malfoy grinned. "I am pleased you think so. I hope you find the service to be equally worthwhile." He stood and stretched out his spine luxuriously. Harry averted his eyes...after stealing a (tiny) peek.

Harry made to exit. "I'd shake your hand, but..."

"Don't worry about it. You can shake it next time." Malfoy showed him the door with a farewell nod. 

Harry wondered how concerned he should be that he was looking forward to his next debilitating injury.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry had a good run. It was two whole months before he took a hit bad enough to warrant seeing Malfoy again. He'd needed a substantial amount of first aid in the interim but he got near to his personal record of 78 days without a work-related medical emergency. There had even been an office pool going for how much longer he would last and what kind of injury would finally ground him. He'd put in a galleon for 71 days and a broken femur, which was close on both counts. Ron was closer still with his wager on 65 days but way off the mark with concussion.

It was Liza Howerton, one of the department's secretaries, who took the pot with an uncannily accurate 63 days and massively sprained ankle.

Technically, Harry hadn't sprained his ankle, he broke it.

Well, shattered it, really.

But still. 

He'd been chasing a would-be terrorist across the rooftops of Diagon--the witch had laid the groundwork for a series of deadly explosions in the busy hub. They were extremely fortunate to have caught wind of the plan before she managed to set any off. 

Harry and Ron had put up anti-apparation wards so it turned into a foot race when the witch made for her escape. She took to the roofs and Harry followed, with Ron keeping pace streetside. She hurled curses over her shoulder but most were so off the mark Harry didn't need to defend himself. It was pure bad luck that one caught the shingles under his feet and sent him careening off the building with a mixed feeling of confusion and dread. He didn't have time to cast anything to slow his descent or lessen the impact.

Amazingly, he landed on his feet. But it was with a sickening crunch that immediately sent him to his knees, having to fight to remain conscious. 

He'd waved Ron on before his worried friend even had a chance to stop, saying through gritted teeth that he was 'right as rain.'

Ron--strategic genius that he was--herded the witch directly into the waiting wands of Proudfoot and Savage. He rushed back to Harry just a few minutes later.

Harry sent his patronus to Parkinson in the meantime letting her know to expect him, so it was short work hobbling down the road with Ron's gracious assistance before he was perched on Malfoy's exam table.

"I was beginning to wonder if I'd see you again, Mr. Potter," Malfoy quipped. He then looked coolly at Ron and said, "He obviously isn't dying. You don't need to be in here."

Ron left for the waiting room in a huff.

"I told him you weren't such a git anymore," Harry chided, gripping the edge of the table with white-knuckled hands and trying very hard to ignore the throbbing pain making him tremble and sweat. "I would appreciate you not proving me wrong."

"Unless you need him to hold your hand while I set your bones, he would only be in my way," Malfoy retorted, shifting the bottom of Harry's robes to the side and efficiently slicing his trouser leg open from the cuff to his knee. "Do you want me to save your boot or just banish it?" he asked pragmatically, effectively changing the subject. 

Harry did like those boots--they were sturdy and broken in nicely--but the thought of Malfoy trying to pull it off over his swollen ankle was too much. "Just banish it," he replied gruffly, closing his eyes and focusing on breathing through his nose.

Even though Malfoy's spell was precise, the jarring change in pressure around Harry's foot made him gasp as his gut heaved in response to a wave of nausea, rolling pain, and the overwhelming sensation of wrongness.

Malfoy wordlessly conjured him a bucket and set about diagnosing the extent of the injury. "Salazar, Potter," he exclaimed with a shake of his head. "Did you jump from a great height or take a _reducto_ directly to the ankle?"

Harry groaned. "The former."

Malfoy scoffed.

"Drink this," he directed, pressing a phial into Harry's hand. Harry complied without bothering to check the contents; he had no mental capacity left for distrust. The potion was thick as sludge and tasted of mildewy leaves and something disturbingly reminiscent of the Quidditch locker room after a match. It was a challenge keeping it down.

But if Harry could defeat a Dark Lord at 17, by Godrick, he could will his rebellious stomach to obey at 25.

The vile substance began to work almost immediately, loosening his muscles and dropping a comforting blanket of dullness over his senses. He even felt relaxed enough to watch Malfoy do his thing.

Malfoy was a picture, wasn't he? Fine brows drawn in concentration, pink lips disappearing into a thin line, wand moving quick and sure as a conductor's baton. He looked capable. Or was it competent? Definitely confident. And sexy. And he was fixing Harry right up. That was kind of him. Who knew Malfoy could be kind?

Harry felt fuzzy and warm all over. He hugged his bucket to his chest and sighed dreamily. "Why'd ya want t'be a Healer?" he slurred.

"So I could heal people," Malfoy answered without interrupting his efforts.

"No, really."

"I am being serious."

"Oh."

Harry slumped over his bucket and quietly watched Malfoy splint his ankle. He couldn't feel a thing. It was odd. His head was two sizes too big and his thoughts kept floating away.

"Ok, Potter," Malfoy said, standing up and resting his hand on Harry's shoulder to guide him onto his back. "Have yourself a lie down. I will let Weasley know you're all right." He patted Harry once and turned to leave.

Harry tried to focus on Malfoy through eyelids that were impossibly heavy and eager to close. "K. But be nice to him," he implored sluggishly. "I want 'im to like you."

Malfoy stopped and regarded him with a strange expression on his face.

Harry smiled. Or at least he thought he did. Everything went dark after that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who wished me well on my interviews, I got the (big, fancy) job  
> :D 
> 
> For everyone else, thanks for reading! I'm thrilled you're enjoying! <3

The next time Harry saw Malfoy, it wasn't for a job-related injury.

It was also less than 48 hours since the last time.

Like an idiot, he'd been up on his counter, riffling around in the back of a cupboard for a tin of Earl Grey he was certain was in there somewhere, when he lost his footing and landed badly on his weak ankle.

He tried icing it and keeping it elevated for a while, but he didn't like the look of the swelling or the purpling bruise that was beginning to form. He asked Kreacher to firecall Parkinson to see if Malfoy had any openings soon.

It happened that Malfoy was free at the moment so Harry limped to the Floo, both thanking and cursing his luck. 

One dizzying, disorienting Floo-trip later, he stumbled out onto Malfoy's hearth. 

"What the hell, Potter!" Malfoy blurted before Harry even had a chance to steady himself. He stomped over and braced his shoulder under Harry's arm to take some of his weight, stooping significantly to make up for their difference in height and wrapping his arm around Harry's middle for balance. "I _just_ patched you up." 

Harry appreciated the assistance, if not the scolding that accompanied it (rather reminiscent of Hermione's approach to helping). He tried to ignore how much they were touching and how nice Malfoy smelled up close. 

"There are easier ways to let a gent know you fancy him," Malfoy gibed as he eased them down the step. 

Harry nearly swallowed his tongue in response.

Parkinson cackled. "Try not to look so scandalized, Potty. You're a grown man--surely by now you have heard of homosexuals, rare and mysterious though they may be."

Malfoy waved her off as he helped Harry maneuver around the desk and into the exam room. Harry focused on hopping with as much dignity as he could muster.

Parkinson called after them, smirk evident in her voice, "You shouldn't believe everything you've heard, mind. Draco is not a sex-crazed deviant. Your virtue is safe with him."

Harry's head whipped around so fast he feared he might have given himself another injury.

"You're--? That's. I mean..."

Words failed him.

"It was a _joke_ , Potter," Malfoy sneered. "Salazar, you're more high-strung than my mother's favourite sommelier and Pierre makes a living being anal retentive."

He deposited Harry on the exam table and straightened his rumpled lab coat.

Harry felt embarrassed and off-balance. He tried to mask it with indifference.

"Ha-bloody-ha."

He ran a hand through his hair and regretted not checking his reflection in a mirror before coming over. Malfoy was always so put together. Harry, in contrast, was wearing slumpy house clothes. He reminded himself that it was a moot point because there wasn't going to be anything between him and Malfoy but it didn't stop the critical nagging of his internal monologue.

"Can we get on with the healing already?" he urged. 

"That _is_ what you pay me for," Malfoy replied sardonically, perching on his stool and rolling closer. "What did you do to yourself this time?" he asked, drawing up Harry's trouser leg and tut-tutting at what he saw. "On second thought, don't tell me. The less I know the less I'll be tempted to sell to the press. They've already called twice wanting to know the nature of our relationship."

Harry stiffened. "What did you say to them?"

" _Pansy_ told them to kindly fuck off. I am not paid to answer the Floo."

Harry laughed, fizzy bubbles of relief easing some of his tension. Hermione had promised to let him know if any more of his medical information made it in the Prophet (sadly, there was very little to be done about the hard-hitting investigative journalism that addressed such newsworthy issues as his favourite take-away curry and how long it had been since his last haircut). Besides the fact Harry had been spotted entering Malfoy's office and conjecture about what may have caused his rift with St. Mungo's--as if that wasn't bloody obvious--there hadn't been an issue. Malfoy seemed true to his word. To have that now confirmed made Harry feel almost giddy.

It could have also been proximity to the man himself.

Godrick, Harry had it bad.

Was it true what Parkinson had said? Not about the safety of Harry's virtue--such as it was--but that bit about Malfoy's proclivities.

He worried his lip as he watched Malfoy cast a battery of spells, pleased to see the swelling had already gone down considerably. 

There was just no tactful way to ask.

Malfoy spared him another go-around on the frustrating mental carrousel by casually remarking, "Pansy tells me you haven't yet taken her up on a massage. She really is quite good, you know. It's part of why I gave her the job."

Harry grimaced at the thought of Parkinson's 'interview' in light of that unwelcome information. He had wondered if she and Malfoy were still an item; it now seemed more than likely. Oh well, he thought cavalierly (though his heart deflated at the news).

"I'm not sure I want to know about that," he replied, lip curled in distaste.

Malfoy swatted him lightly on the arm. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Potter. I am talking about a purely professional matter. Besides," he added cheekily, "Pans prefers fanny. I would not advise leaving her alone with your friend Granger." Harry choked but Malfoy continued undeterred, " _Anyway_. It can't be because you don't need one--your shoulders are so tense they're halfway up your neck, and I don't believe you don't trust a Slytherin to touch you, unless I get a special dispensation as your Healer," he cocked a brow at Harry in silent question but didn't wait for a response, "so why decline a perfectly good complementary massage?"

Having reduced the ankle to a more-or-less normal size and coaxed the bruise to a healthy-ish yellow color, Malfoy began splinting it as he spoke. 

Harry blinked dumbly at him.

He collected his scattered thoughts with great effort and answered, "First off, I  _do_ make an exception for you. I don't let many people touch me otherwise." Malfoy quirked an amused half-smile. Harry went on, "Secondly, I don't trust Parkinson--Slytherin or no, that woman scares me." Malfoy laughed outright at that. "And lastly," Harry cast about for the proper wording. Unable to find it,  he was forced to settle for the first thing that popped into his head, "Massages are kind of weird, aren't they? I mean, if it's not a significant other doing it then it's just some random person touching you intimately but it isn't supposed to be sexual. You just moan for a bit, shake hands, and that's the end of it. It's ruddy awkward, I say."

Malfoy chuckled while he tested the splint. Apparently he found it satisfactory. "Fair points all. Though I personally don't find massages awkward." He gazed at Harry speculatively. "I wonder, do you enjoy them in a romantic context?"

Was is just him or had Malfoy's voice gone down a register?

He swallowed thickly and pulled off his glasses to rub out invisible smudges on the edge of his shirt. "They're all right then, I suppose," he mumbled.

Truthfully, Harry had very little data from which to draw a conclusion. He didn't date much. It wasn't fair to put anyone through the ordeal. The press was so bad after their last breakup, poor Ginny had fled the country. Never mind the fact Harry didn't want his sexuality to be discussed over tea by everyone and their grandmothers. So he made do with his right hand and occasional trips to Muggle London and put up with the endless speculation about which witch he was secretly dating.

It could be worse.

Malfoy tapped his lip thoughtfully. Harry stared at the innocent gesture as he pushed his glasses back onto his nose. "What if it was medically justified?" he queried, sitting up on his stool now that he had finished with Harry's leg. "A _therapeutic_ massage, as it were. You've dealt with more uncomfortable procedures during your many visits to the hospital, I'm sure."

He looked to Harry for confirmation. Harry shrugged. He didn't know where Malfoy was going with this, but he was pretty sure he didn't like it.

"The amount of tension you are carrying in your neck and shoulders could easily pull your spine out of alignment," Malfoy explained, very Healer-like. "In addition to chronic pain, that can result in an uneven gait, which in turn makes trips and falls more likely." He looked pointedly at Harry's swaddled ankle.

"I suppose if it's medically necessary..." Harry replied reluctantly. He really didn't want Parkinson's talons on him, but if Malfoy was right about tension contributing to the frequency of his injuries--

"Smart man." Malfoy smiled like they shared a private joke but Harry had no clue what it was. He shrugged out of his lab coat and told Harry to take off his shirt and lie face down.

Harry's brain stuttered.

"Come again?" he squeaked, breathlessly transfixed as Malfoy rolled up his shirtsleeves, partially exposing the scarred remains of the Dark Mark.

"Your shirt. Take it off. If I'm going to do this, I will do it right."

Malfoy's voice was definitely deeper now. And very...authoritative.

"Oh. You're going to..." Harry forgot how to breathe. "Right. Ok." He suddenly remembered seconds later and took a shaky gulp of air. "Ok."

Done for. He was completely done for.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry undid his buttons with clumsy fingers.

"Before I get started," Malfoy interjected, "would you like a potion for the pain?"

_What kind of massage did the sadist have in mind?_

Harry's already-primed anxiety kicked into overdrive. "How much is it going to hurt?" he asked dubiously.

"You should see your face right now," Malfoy smirked, finishing with his sleeves. Even with the Mark, Harry thought his forearms were nice--all pale and leanly muscled. "I meant for your ankle."

"Oh." Harry berated himself for his stupidity. "Right. Of course. Um, no thanks," he scratched at the side of his head and scrunched his nose. "I think I'm still recovering from the last one. Ron said I sang the Hogwarts school song for almost an hour before falling dead asleep on the sofa." (He also said Harry mentioned some interesting things about Malfoy, but refused to elaborate; he could only hope they weren't too incriminating.)

With his pulse skittering in his throat, Harry shucked his shirt and carefully laid himself prone on the table, pillowing his head on his arms. The new splint ensured he didn't jostle his ankle overmuch. Unfortunately, the position ensured he couldn't see much of what Malfoy was doing.

He didn't relish feeling so vulnerable.

"Relax, Potter. This is supposed to _help_ with your tension, not worsen it."

"That's easy for you to say," Harry grumbled, "you still have your shirt on."

Malfoy strode back into his limited field of vision and propped his hands on his hips. "Are you offering to trade positions? I wouldn't object."

There was laughter in his voice but...something else...beneath it.

Something that didn't sound like teasing. 

Harry faltered. He found it hard to believe Malfoy might actually be flirting with him. It was much more likely he was taking the piss out of him. Nevertheless, he pooled his courage to retort, "Since I'm already here you may as well do whatever you planned on doing. We can see about you having the next go when you're done."

He had no clue how he managed to say it without stammering. 

Malfoy chuckled, low and warm. A corresponding heat blossomed in Harry's belly, spreading out to his extremities; his heart beat as quick as a frightened rabbit.

He turned his face to the table and screwed his eyes shut. For as much as he wanted to be able to see, he thought he would lose his nerve if he did.

His senses were finely attuned to Malfoy, however. He could hear his breaths and the sounds of his preparations (even if Harry wasn't sure what those preparations were), the fine fabric of his trouser legs rubbing against each other as he stepped.

The smell of his cologne lingered in Harry's nose--sandalwood and spice. Harry had gotten a whiff of it when Malfoy helped him limp into the exam room. He'd also noted that Malfoy's hair smelled like green apples, which meant he probably used the same pomade he had favoured back in school.

_Why do I know that?_

"I guess the rumors about the Hungarian Horntail tattoo on your chest were just that, then," Malfoy said (sounding somehwat disappointed).

Harry snorted, grateful for the distraction. "I'm afraid so. You know how rumors are--gross exaggerations and outright fabrications more often than not." He waited a beat before adding, "It's a Ukranian Ironbelly and it's on my left arsecheek."

"Is that a fact?" Malfoy drawled, clearly amused. He opened a drawer and rummaged through its contents.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Harry replied, amazed at himself for flirting openly. 

Even if it was just sport, it was fun. 

"Indeed I would," Malfoy responded, coming to stand beside him. The hairs on the back of Harry's neck prickled. " _Ready?_ " he whispered huskily. 

"Mhmph," Harry mumbled in response. 

Malfoy must have taken it for a yes because he placed his hands on Harry's shoulders and confidently set to work.

In addition to being strong and clever--and twice as hot as Harry remembered--Malfoy's hands were slicked with something that felt like oil. It was smooth and slippery and... _oh Godrick_.

Harry bit back a whimper, but a startled groan emerged a moment later when Malfoy pushed directly on a painful knot of tension between his shoulder blades.

He pressed his lips together to prevent any other embarrassing noises from escaping.

"Don't be shy," Malfoy chided, moving his thumbs in firm circles along the base of Harry's neck and kneading his trapezius muscles with his fingers. "Remaining silent is counterproductive."

Harry fully intended disregard that advice but when Malfoy put his body-weight behind a long, dragging press up his spine--which produced several loud and gratifying pops--he couldn't help the moan that was drawn out of him.

"That's it," Malfoy praised lowly, digging hard into Harry's shoulders until the feeling was just on the edge of pain. It was the satisfying kind, though, like prodding a sore tooth or the ache of really great sex--

That was precisely the wrong thing to think.

Harry groaned for an entirely different reason as his cock, which had been fairly attentive to the proceedings thus far, took a very keen interest in what Malfoy was doing to his body. 

"You're tensing up again," Malfoy remarked with a teasing lilt.

"You're highly observant," Harry replied archly.

Malfoy's laugh was a warm ghosting of breath against his neck. Harry shivered as goose flesh erupted in its wake.

Malfoy rubbed and kneaded in silence for several minutes after that, long enough for Harry to relax to the point of his limbs going heavy and slack.

The man really was quite skilled.

"You sold yourself short when you said Parkinson was the one with the talent for massage," he proclaimed drowsily. 

"I said Pansy was _good_ ," Malfoy corrected, sliding his palms over Harry's deltoids. _"_ I'm better."

Harry would have called him a haughty prick but, in this case, the pride was entirely justified. (It was also bloody hard to make his mouth form words at the moment.)

He only became aware that Malfoy's hands were creeping lower when they splayed just above the swell of his arse. Malfoy pressed outward, leaning into the move so that Harry's hips ground into the cushioned table top.

"I thought this was supposed to be a neck and shoulder massage," Harry grunted. He wasn't complaining--it felt fantastic--he was just being smart. 

"I might have been a tad disingenuous when I indicated this was _purely_ professional on my part," Malfoy replied, duplicating the move but ending it with a pinch to Harry's arsecheek (where the tattoo would be if he actually had one).

Harry laughed and levered himself upright, turning so his legs dangled off the side of the table. Malfoy took a shamelessly long look at his naked torso before locking eyes with him.

The silver smoldered. 

"Do you remember when I caught you in my train compartment year six?" he asked.

Harry frowned. "Yeah. You broke my nose. That's a little hard to forget." He could still remember the incident with perfect clarity, right down to the textured sole of Malfoy's shoe and the sound of his own cartilage crumbling.

Malfoy looked remorseful. "Right. Sorry about that. I was a little shit back then," he quirked a rueful half-smile. Harry snorted. "That was during my rabid denial phase in which my commitment to being the dutiful--and _straight--_ pureblood son resulted in a good deal of self-loathing and misdirected anger." He exhaled through his nose and came to lean against the exam table on Harry's left, gazing at a nondescript point on the floor. "You bore the brunt of that anger because you featured in quite a few of my," he cleared his throat, "more shameful fantasies."

Harry's heart clenched in sympathy. He knew all to well the confusion and alienation of wanting something different than what most boys did. How much harder it must have been for Malfoy with the weight of his family's expectations on his shoulders.

"Also because you were an insufferable git," Malfoy added, bumping shoulders with Harry and making him chuckle. "But that's beside the point. I stomped your face because what I really wanted to do was lock the door and have my way with you--or let you have your way with me, I'm not picky--but those feelings were too complicated for me to deal with maturely or appropriately."

He cleared his throat again and ran his fingers through his hair. It was the most unsettled Harry had ever seen him outside of immediate crisis.

"I'm rambling. My point is, I wanted you then. I want you now. And I am a much less angry person now so I probably won't break your nose again, but if I do I can set it to rights."

He offered Harry a crooked grin. 

"That might be the sweetest offer of a shag I've ever received," he replied in full honesty. "Even with the insults and references to grave bodily harm." Malfoy huffed a laugh. Harry grew serious. "But aren't there rules or codes of conduct or something about Healers not sleeping with their patients?"

Malfoy's expression went sly. "I like to think of those as more 'suggestion' than rule."

"Could you lose your license over it?"

"No."

"Be exposed to disciplinary action?"

"Nope," Malfoy replied, popping the 'P.' "It would make quite a splash if the press caught wind of it, but I've strategies for dealing with that possibility and I have developed rather thick skin where the Prophet is concerned." He looked questioningly at Harry. "So...?"

"Yeah. Definitely," Harry nodded vigorously. "You know, it's pathetic, but part of me was excited when I twisted my damn ankle because it meant I might get to see you again."

Malfoy smiled. "That is oddly endearing."

With a dizzy feeling of elation, Harry nudged Malfoy off the table and spread his knees so he could slot in between them. Malfoy stepped forward until they were chest-to-chest. He gently removed Harry's glasses and set them aside. He then cupped Harry's jaw in his hand, threading his fingers into the hair at the base of his skull, and leaned forward.

A knock sounded at the door.

There aren't enough swears in the English language to accurately convey Harry's sentiments about the interruption.

"Trousers up, boys," Parkinson called through the wood. "Your four o'clock is due any minute, Draco."

"I am not available," Malfoy growled. "Cancel the rest of my appointments." He leaned forward once again. 

"Your four o'clock is the landlord, darling," Parkinson explained regretfully. "The one whose good side it is important you remain on lest you risk eviction from this prime piece of real estate."

"Damn it!" Malfoy dropped his forehead onto Harry's with a disappointed groan. "I have to take this one," he said quietly, apologetically, running a hand lightly over Harry's arms. "I would cancel literally any other."

Harry found it in himself to be calm and reasonable, though his raging erection demanded that he apparate them both out of there. "It's ok," he replied. "You have a business to run. I understand."

Draco pulled him in for one hard kiss. It wasn't nearly enough. Harry's magic rose up to whisk them away and would have done so at the slightest of whims, but he tamped it down through sheer force of will.

They dressed quickly and in silence.

When it was time for him to leave, he jokingly asked, "Do I have to break something else to see you or would you be willing to come to mine for dinner?"

Draco's eyes sparkled. "Tonight?"

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "If you're not busy. If you are, any other night except for Sunday is ok for me. Unless something comes up at work."

"No," Draco shook his head hard enough to make his lovely hair sway. "Tonight is good. Tonight is _great_." He beamed at Harry. Harry's cock reminded him that it wasn't too late for apparation. "Is eight o'clock all right?"

"Eight is perfect."

Harry would have said the same for whatever time Malfoy might have suggested. ('Three a.m.?' 'Splendid!')

"Then it's a date."

It really was unfair for Malfoy to look so sweet--he was difficult enough to resist with an insolent smirk on his face. 

Still, Harry left the office feeling deliriously happy. He didn't even pay Parkinson's knowing leer any mind. 

He'd be counting down the minutes til eight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am just too mean. I bet you thought the kinky doctor sex was finally going to happen (I'm looking at you, hypergraphia). 
> 
> Sorry, dears, not yet. 
> 
> But if you feel let down, just think how those poor sexually frustrated boys must feel! XD


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¡Ay, caramba! This fic has been upgraded to Explicit. (You're welcome.)
> 
> A couple of housekeeping issues: 
> 
> I ret-conned the boys to be older. 22 was too young for Draco's timeline. Now they're 25. Magic!
> 
> Google provided Draco's French. (I took Spanish in school.) Please correct me if I made him say something weird. ...Not that Harry would know one way or another.

Harry stirred his bolognese sauce and tried a taste off the wooden spoon. Pleased with the flavour, he set it to simmer and went upstairs to change his clothes.

By the time he came down, Kreacher had beaten him to setting the dining room table, even going so far as lighting the candles and putting the wine in a decanter.

Harry found the contrary house-elf tossing a salad together in the kitchen, though he'd been expressly prohibited from preparing dinner. He probably deemed the salad acceptable since he wasn't technically cooking. Ruddy house-elf spent more time finding loopholes in Harry's requests than fulfilling them.

"Thanks for doing that, Kreacher, but I was going to," Harry censured mildly.  

"If Master Harry won't allow Kreacher to prepare dinner, Kreacher can at least set the table."

Harry tugged his hair. They'd been over this already. "It isn't about not wanting your help, it's about me doing things for my own date."

Kreacher did not care to understand the difference. There came a knock at the front of the house before Harry had an opportunity to explain. Again. 

The house-elf leveled a knobby finger at him. "Master Harry is to go wait in the dining room. Kreacher will be answering the door and greeting his guest as is proper."

"Yes, sir," Harry replied sarcastically. (Leave it to him to have a house-elf that gave _him_ orders.)

Kreacher trudged out of the kitchen and Harry plated two servings of pasta before making his way to the dining room. His ankle twinged at every step. There were so many bleeding stairs in the house and he'd been up and down the lot of them multiple times since returning home that afternoon.

He really did need to be more careful. The number of injuries he'd sustained lately was absurd even by his standards.

Malfoy was in the dining room when he arrived, contemplating the wine and looking exquisite. He'd changed out of his work clothes and restyled his hair (Harry looked forward to mussing it again). He was wearing snug black trousers with some kind of open-necked slate coloured tunic that had silver embroidery at the edges. Harry could see almost to the center of his chest, including the subtle swell of his pectorals. His mouth watered at the sight.

Kreacher muttered something about Harry not knowing his place as he stomped off to fetch the salad.

"I made dinner," he said inanely, holding the plates aloft.

"It looks delicious," Malfoy replied without so much as glancing at the meal. He only had eyes for Harry, it seemed. "Will you be terribly offended if I don't eat it?"

Harry set the plates on the table and stuffed his hands in his pockets, feeling somewhat let down. "Um, I guess not. Why? Did you eat already?"

Malfoy traversed the distance between them with a ground-eating stride. "No," he said lowly. "I don't want to wait another minute for this."

He took Harry's mouth in a searing kiss.

Harry made a whining noise in the back of his throat and pulled his hands out of his pockets to clutch at Malfoy's hips. Malfoy purred in appreciation from deep in his chest and tilted Harry's head back to plunder his mouth. He parted his lips for Malfoy's questing tongue and twined his own with it.

You wouldn't have guessed that Harry'd had a wank earlier by how enthusiastically his libido responded. Merlin's tits but Malfoy was a great kisser; he snogged with the same care and finesse he used for healing.

Malfoy eased up after a minute to ask where Harry's bedroom was, pulling Harry's shirt out of his trousers as he did so. (So much for the 30 minutes he'd spent deliberating his outfit.)

"Third floor," Harry gasped as Malfoy snaked his hands under his shirt and palmed his feverish skin.

"Too far," Malfoy objected, nibbling Harry's earlobe. "What else have you got?" He dipped his too-clever tongue into the shell of Harry's ear while kneading at his waist.

It was impossible to think with the full-on sensory assault he was being subjected to. "Um...uh..." Harry floundered.

"If you don't choose quickly, I will choose for you," Malfoy rumbled. "And my choice will be the dining room table. And that might traumatize your house-elf."

The table didn't sound all that bad to Harry, actually, but something with a little more give seemed prudent given the way his ankle was protesting its mistreatment.

"First floor. Guest room," he said decisively, grabbing a handful of Malfoy's pert arse.

Malfoy ground his pelvis against Harry's in turn, deeming the suggestion 'acceptable.'

He was already hard.

Well good, because Harry was, too. Achingly so.

"Kreacher, turn off the hob, please!" he yelled hoarsely, stumbling after Malfoy who dragged him by the hand like he knew where they were going. It wouldn't do to burn the house down while they were otherwise occupied.

The short journey up the stairs was a precarious one because of the urgent necessity to shed clothes as they went, snogging and groping all the while. They arrived at the guest room both shirtless and out of breath. Draco had lost his shoes somewhere around the landing. Harry's trousers gaped open, his belt abandoned. Malfoy'd made short work of the fastenings and shoved a wicked, brilliant hand inside.

Panting with need, Harry kicked open the door--idiot move, that; his ankle now hurt something fierce--crossed the room in a hurry, and pulled Malfoy down onto the bed with him.

Because Ron had stayed over just the other night, the linens were fresh. Not that it would have stopped Harry if they weren't, but Malfoy might have objected.

"How do you want to do this?" he inquired, thinking his ankle would require him to bottom unless they got creative. 

"With you," Malfoy said earnestly after sucking what was probably a love bite into his neck. "That's the only thing I care about."

Harry experienced a swooping sensation, not unlike making a sharp dive on a broom. "When did you become such a romantic?" he teased, grinning broadly.

Malfoy propped himself up on one elbow. "I lived in Paris for four years," he said matter-of-factly. A slow, devious smile stretched his mouth. "Would you like to be seduced in French?"

" _Yes_."

Harry was well and truly seduced already, but he would be to be daft to reject an offer like that.

Malfoy climbed on top of him, bracketing his hips with his thighs and holding himself aloft on stiff arms. He gazed intently at Harry.

"Je suis le poète et tu es la poésie," he murmured in what sounded to be a perfect French accent (but what did Harry know). "Toi et nul autre." He leaned down for a slow, teasing kiss. "Est-ce que tu es aussi doux que tes yeux?" he breathed against Harry's lips, then began placing wet, open-mouthed kisses down his neck and across his chest. "Je veux te goûter." He laved one of Harry's nipples, drawing the hardened bud into his mouth and nipping it gently. Harry arched completely off the bed, the noise he made far from dignified.

He was long past caring.

He had no intention of just laying there letting Malfoy run the show, however. He might not know any foreign languages, but he was still good with his tongue.

He pulled off his glasses and tossed them in the general direction of his nightstand. He then urged Malfoy up for another snog and shoved him on to his back, never breaking the kiss.

Malfoy went willingly.

He worked his way down Malfoy's torso, paying special attention to his flat pink nipples and the dip of his navel. Malfoy writhed and moaned beneath him, wonderfully responsive.

He massaged Malfoy's thighs through his trousers before unfastening them and tugging them down his narrow hips. It was slow going because they were so damn tight. (Nice to look at when he and Malfoy were just standing around, but a right pain in the arse now that they were horizontal.)

He successfully exposed the tempting grooves of Malfoy's lower abdomen then stopped. "Are you not wearing pants?" he asked incredulously.

"With _those_ trousers?" Malfoy retorted. "Not bloody likely."

Harry groaned, his cock leaping eagerly. "Give a bloke a warning, Malfoy. I could have passed out from sudden blood loss."

Malfoy smirked conceitedly. _Let him_ , Harry thought. He'd be wiping the smirk off his face soon enough.

He yanked the trousers the rest of the way off (with Malfoy's obliging assistance), and feasted his eyes on the glory of the man laid bare before him.

"Why are you still wearing clothes?" Malfoy griped. "I want to see that tattoo of yours."

Harry shook his head, grinning. "That tattoo is as real as your massage was therapeutic."

"Hey!" Malfoy pouted. "My massage was therapeutic." His pout pulled at the edges, transforming into a smug little smile. "It just also happened to be a ploy to get into your pants. A successful one, I might add." Harry snorted. "I am very disappointed in you for lying to me, though. Some Gryffindor you are. I was hoping to become well acquainted with that dragon."

Harry waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Oh, you are about to become very well acquainted with my 'dragon'," he replied. 

" _Boo!_ " Malfoy frowned in exaggerated disgust and swatted at him. "Terrible, Potter. Absolutely abysmal," he continued as Harry laughed hard enough to make his shoulders shake. "If I wasn't so keen on shagging you, I'd leave this very moment."

"Bully for me," Harry retorted. The perfect posh Slytherin Prince stuck out his tongue and Harry laughed all the harder.

He settled himself between Malfoy's legs when his mirth finally died down enough for the serious business of making Malfoy forget his own name.

He licked a broad stripe up Malfoy's smooth inner thigh and punctuated it with a nip to his hipbone.

"Ticklish," Malfoy complained, tilting away from Harry's mouth. Harry wrapped his arms around both of Malfoy's legs to hold him in place and did it again. Malfoy squirmed and canted his hips to get Harry's mouth closer to where he wanted it. Luckily for him, they were of the same mind. Harry was done teasing.

He licked Malfoy's cock from root to tip, following a heavy vein along the underside. He swallowed the first third of it when he got to the top, wrapping his lips tightly around the crown and swirling his tongue against the head, savoring the musky bitterness of Malfoy's precome. Malfoy uttered a stream of insensible praise.

Harry hollowed his cheeks and sucked downward until his nose bumped Malfoy's pubic bone, tickled by the soft blond hairs curling there. Malfoy's hips bucked but Harry held him still and began working in earnest--bobbing his head and smoothing his tongue and humming around Malfoy's shaft, kneading his thighs with his hands. Malfoy's head thrashed on the pillow and his hips jerked helplessly.

Harry felt incredibly smug and impossibly turned on.

When he thought Malfoy might be approaching the point of no return, he carefully drew off the gorgeous cock--now slick and shiny with his saliva--and wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

"Do you forgive me for the terrible line?" he asked playfully, peering up at Malfoy over the span of his luscious body. Malfoy's chest heaved and his face was flushed and his hair was in a state of disarray. Harry congratulated himself on a job well done.

"I'll forgive you every slight you've ever caused me if you promise to do that again someday and finish what you've started," Malfoy replied seriously.

Harry grinned. "You have yourself a deal." He pushed himself up until he was sitting on his heels (ignoring the pain in his ankle). "Now if it's not too much trouble, I would appreciate you fucking me into the mattress at your earliest convenience."

Malfoy's eyes fell shut momentarily and he made a pained sound. "If you keep talking like that, it will be over far too soon," he answered roughly. But he sat up and moved to the side, nodding Harry into the spot he'd just vacated.

"I don't suppose you have any lube in here," Malfoy inquired, looking skeptically at the nightstand.

"No, but that's easily remedied." Harry summoned the bottle from his room, wordlessly and wandlessly. It whizzed past Malfoy's head and flew right into his open hand. (He might have been showing off a little.)

"So _those_ rumors weren't exaggerated," Malfoy quipped, arching a brow.

Harry shrugged with false modesty. "Some are based on fact, I reckon."

He passed the bottle to Malfoy. 

He thought about letting him know he wouldn't need much preparation, but then he remembered the no-pants incident and decided to let the fiend discover it on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex, as promised. *saucy wink* 
> 
> There's definitely more to come but the next chapter might be delayed by my busy weekend. I'll see what I can do.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex, sex, and more sex.

"Salazar, Potter," Malfoy whimpered. "You're already wet."

Harry grinned roguishly. "I am," he confirmed. "I had myself a wank when I got in."

Malfoy slipped one of his long fingers between Harry's arsecheeks to test his claim; it slid in with little resistance.

"Oh _fuck_ ," he breathed.

Harry shivered at the welcome intrusion and clenched around the digit.

"You got yourself ready for me," Malfoy spoke in a hushed, awed whisper, rubbing his other hand in light circles on Harry's knee.

In truth, it was just how Harry liked to wank, but Malfoy seemed so touched he didn't have the heart to break it to him. Plus, he had left the lube with him in mind (which wasn't much different as far as he was concerned).

"How many fingers did you use?"

Harry wiggled his bum against Malfoy's hand. "Three. So you don't need to do a lot. I like feeling a bit of the burn anyway."

" _Merlin_." Malfoy bowed his head as if in prayer. "If I had known this was an option, I would have come back to London ages ago."

Harry bumped him with his knee. "Well you're here now, so quit stalling and get to it. Chop, chop."

Malfoy snorted a laugh. "I'm trying to have a moment, you impatient tosser."

"You can have all the moments you like after you've made me come."

"Impatient and _greedy_ ," Malfoy corrected, eyes crinkled at the corners.

Nevertheless, he began to pump the finger inside of Harry shallowly and slid his palm down Harry's thigh to wrap it around his cock. He tugged with short, firm strokes that matched the pace of his right hand and sent shocks of pleasure through Harry's sensitized nerve endings.

" _More_ ," he prompted, canting his hips and spreading his legs in case Malfoy lacked any clarity about what he wanted.

But Malfoy had always been a clever one, despite his many questionable choices; he added a second finger alongside the first and probed deeper with his thrusts.

Harry loosed a keening wail and his body curled reflexively when Malfoy pushed the pads of his fingers against his prostate. Because his eyes had fallen closed he couldn't see the self-satisfied look on Malfoy's face, but he could picture it just fine. Cocky bastard.

 _Sexy_ , cocky bastard.

Sexy, _skillful_ , cocky bastard.

Malfoy incorporated a twist to his pulls that terminated Harry's ability to sustain the thought, which was just as well. He used both hands to drive Harry to the brink quickly and effectively.

 _He should get his hands insured_ , Harry thought deliriously. Because they were fucking amazing. And Malfoy knew just what to do with them.

"That's enough," he panted after only a few seconds of the wonderful torture. 

Malfoy curled his fingers and made him gasp. "We don't have to rush," he purred.

"Bloody hell, Malfoy," Harry groaned, torn between squirming away from his hand and thrusting against it. "Are you going to make me beg?"

"What do you think," Malfoy replied, husky. Haughty.

It wasn't even a question.

Harry ought to have taken the git down a couple of pegs by freezing him out.

But then he'd have to wait to sex. And he _really_ didn't want to wait for sex. It had been a while and he had no doubt that Malfoy would deliver (and well). His wanting was great enough for him to sacrifice his pride on the altar of shagging with but a twinge of regret.

"Shit, Malfoy," he huffed as Malfoy continued to pump inside and around him. (Putting sentences together while that was happening was a feat). "I want you so bad. I'm close. I want to come...ngh...come on your thick cock."

Malfoy shuddered. His fringe hung loose, lightly brushing his sharp cheekbones. His kiss-swollen lips were parted--he was breathing almost as hard as Harry. All that could be seen of his irises were slim silver rings around black pupils and his body shone with a thin sheen of sweat.

He was maybe the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen.

" _Harry_..." he said pleadingly. The panicked look in his eyes a second later told him it had been a slip.

Harry gave a reassuring smile and removed Malfoy's hands so he could lean up for a kiss. There was an undercurrent of desperation in the way Malfoy pressed against his lips. Harry poured himself into the kiss, meeting Malfoy's desperation with his resolve.

The mood between them shifted. There was no more teasing playfulness, no petty competition. The simple, driving lust from moments before transformed as they embraced as if for the first time. It became something deeper, more important. It was frighteningly intense. 

Harry wasn't one to back away from things that scared him. 

He laid back down into the pillows and brought Malfoy with him. "I want you inside me," he whispered, sliding his fingers through Malfoy's silky hair.

Malfoy bit his lip, deeply affected.

He placed fluttering kisses on the points of Harry's face--the tip of his nose, his scar, his eyelids, his chin--as he prepared himself with lube and protection charms. He eased Harry's legs apart and hooked his arm under Harry's left knee to hoist it up. Harry held his breath as Malfoy lined himself up and pushed.

Godrick, it burned. Malfoy continued until his cockhead breached the tight ring of Harry's muscle, then stopped to give him a chance to acclimate. "Come on then," Harry urged, eager for the pain to give way to pleasure, as he knew it would.

Malfoy rocked his hips and inched his way in, withdrawing and pushing slightly farther with each successive thrust. Harry made himself relax, breathing steadily (albeit shallowly) and focusing on the dragging pull against his inner walls. The look of blissful concentration on Malfoy's face was dear. He wanted to kiss him for it but wasn't quite ready to attempt gymnastics to make it happen.

He and Malfoy both exhaled on a sigh when the latter was fully seated. Malfoy did lean over to brush his lips against Harry's then. Harry stuck out his tongue to lap at him. Malfoy made a little noise and began to thrust, slow and steady at first, but gaining in speed and intensity as Harry egged him on.

Harry wasn't shy about giving direction. And Malfoy, surprisingly, had no problem taking it. He coached Malfoy to the angle and pace that best suited him and praised him with words and sighs and moans.

Harry palmed his cock, stopping it from slapping lewdly against his belly, and jerking himself in time with Malfoy's pistoning hips. His balls drew up tight against his body as his muscles began to seize. He fisted his free hand in the sheets and grunted encouragement.

Malfoy folded him nearly in half and did as Harry'd requested at the beginning--he fucked him into the mattress until Harry could do nothing but gasp and take it, and it was bloody _brilliant_.

"Come on, Harry," he urged. "Come for me. You're so fucking sexy and you feel so good. I want to see you come."

Harry didn't take direction well, usually, but it seemed he made all kinds of exceptions for Malfoy: that fantastic dirty talk, in Malfoy's snobby accent, with him sounding breathless and broken and needy was enough to push Harry over the edge. The heat pooling in his belly boiled over, pulsing in delicious, body-quaking waves. He came all over his hand and into the hair around his navel.

He kept tugging, slower now, to draw out his orgasm as he waited for the moment Malfoy tensed and shivered above him, spending himself in three jerky thrusts.

Malfoy gingerly released Harry's leg after a few seconds of catching his breath and withdrew his flagging cock. Harry shivered at the sudden sensation of emptiness, but Malfoy laid beside him on the mattress and pulled him into a tender--and sticky--spooning cuddle. Harry waved a careless hand to clean up the worst of the mess and shimmied closer to Malfoy, feeling slightly chilled as his sweat cooled and dried.

"All right, Potter?" he asked quietly, hugging Harry's chest with one arm.

Harry clasped his wrist. "Better than."

Malfoy nuzzled into his nape, planting a dozen little kisses on the back of his neck. Harry dozed in the warmth of the embrace and his pleasant, post-coital languor. 

Malfoy woke him some number of minutes later with the quiet (but loaded) question: "Did you plan for this to be a one-off?"

Harry thought carefully about his answer.

He hadn't really put much planning or forethought into the evening. Sex for him was often casual, but that was more the result of circumstance than preference. Before that day he wouldn't have expected Malfoy to be interested in anything more than a shag but the man had already defied a number of his expectations.

"I'm open to something more," he replied circumspectly.

Malfoy stilled, far too much tension for someone who should, by rights, be relaxed and contented. "More sex or...?" Harry smiled at his hesitancy; it was so unlike him. He shifted to his back so he could look up into wary grey eyes.

"I would absolutely like more sex. That was the best shag I've had in a long time," he grinned. "But I would also like for us to eat that dinner I made. And other dinners after that. And lunches. Teas. Breakfasts, even."

Malfoy smiled sweetly and Harry drew his thumb across his angled jaw. "I feel like I don't really know you," he admitted, swallowing down his apprehension (he was out of practice with this sort of thing). "But I would like to."

No word but angelic could describe the look on Malfoy's face then.

"I would like that, as well," he whispered.

Malfoy closed the small distance between them for a gentle, promise-filled kiss.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slowdown, folks. I'm swamped with work and it's probably not going to let up any time soon. 
> 
> Never fear, I will see this baby to the end!
> 
> (Sorry, too, if this chapter is a bit rough. It's way past my bedtime and I need to throw in the proof reading towel.)

The men decided to have their dinner in bed since Harry's ankle had gone from irritable grumbling to furious bitching over the course of the evening. Malfoy was kind enough to apply one of his soothing, tingly, cooling charms (Harry wanted to learn that spell--he was pretty sure he'd worked out the wand motions but the showy prat insisted on doing it non-verbally so he had no clue what the incantation could be). He even offered to go downstairs to retrieve the food in deference to Harry's unwillingness to summon Kreacher in the state he was in, but the house-elf appeared with the entire meal balanced on a serving tray before Harry could reply.

He appreciated the spirit of Kreacher's thoughtfulness if not its practice--the house-elf had even kept the pasta hot and the salad cool and crisp under charms.

He pulled the bedclothes up to his chin while Kreacher arranged the spread on a conjured table. Malfoy didn't have the same compunction about being witnessed in his altogether by the ancient house-elf: he lounged with the duvet bunched low around his waist. Must be the product of growing up with them, Harry decided, though Malfoy did thank Kreacher when he dismissed him, which was nice.

He handed Harry a glass of wine and a plate and settled in next to him, sitting up against the head board.

"You made this?" he asked appraising the dish, a hint of surprise in his tone. 

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "It's nothing special. I get a bit more creative in the kitchen on occasion but I wanted to do something I knew I could pull off easily tonight."

"I think I'd like to hear more about you getting creative in the kitchen," Malfoy said with a lascivious wink before taking his first (dainty) bite.

Harry snorted and rolled his eyes. "I'm sure," he replied dryly. "Well if you're very good, maybe someday I'll show you what I can do with a nice, firm aubergine and a bottle of olive oil." (Put together a respectable aubergine parmigiana is what.)

Malfoy smirked around the bite. "It's good," he declared after swallowing. "And the wine pairs nicely."

"Thanks. I like to believe I'm not totally hopeless." Harry took a heaping bite of his own--he was famished.

Malfoy gestured at him with his fork, "Rumor has it you're on track to be the youngest Head Auror in DMLE history, so hopeless, you are not. Personal injury track record notwithstanding."

Harry shrugged carelessly. "My injury record isn't so bad when you graph it against my arrest record." He had done so, in fact, (with Hermione's help) to make a case for why he shouldn't have to submit to mandatory mind healing to address what Robards termed his 'personal death wish.' Harry didn't want to die. _Obviously_. He'd come back from the dead, hadn't he?

Malfoy pursed his lips. "Right. What's a few broken bones, catastrophic organ trauma, and dozens of burns and contusions when the public can sleep safer at night knowing Auror Potter is on patrol," he retorted sarcastically.

Harry didn't care for his tone. He'd had enough lectures from people who actually had a say in his life--namely Hermione, his supervisors, Molly, and Ron (in descending order of frequency and severity of nagging). "It's the nature of the job, Malfoy. Aurors get hurt. That's why we have a dedicated bed at St. Mungo's. I knew that going in."

Malfoy arched a brow at him and said, "Have I been fired as your Healer then? It would have been nice of you to let me know."

"What? No. Why would you think that?"Harry experienced a momentary panic.  _Was it because they shagged?_

Malfoy took a sip of his wine before answering, "Because Healers are typically entitled to give their opinions, direction, and advice on matters of their patients' health and wellness."

Oh. Harry supposed he did have a point...

"Fine. What do you suggest, oh wise and venerable Healer?"

"Perhaps consider not acting like you're invincible, for a start." Malfoy raised both brows in challenge. 

"Sage advice," Harry smirked. "I will take it into consideration. Anything else?" He scooped a bite of salad mixed with pasta into his mouth and chuckled at Malfoy's horrified expression. 

"Stop leaping off of buildings and into curses," Malfoy replied, prying his eyes away from the apparent train-wreck that was Harry's table (or, in this case, bed) manners. 

"Brilliant. Why have I never thought of that?"

"Because you're an imbecile."

Harry scoffed. Malfoy took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and wiped his mouth with a napkin before adding, "You should let someone else trip the wards for a change."

Harry had nearly finished his plate in the meantime. "A novel idea," he quipped. 

Malfoy was on a roll. "No more dragon riding," he instructed, smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. 

" _None_?" Harry gave an exaggerated pout. "Now you're just taking all my fun."

Malfoy heaved a put-upon sigh. "Very well. You may ride one dragon." He grinned wolfishly. " _Me_."

"Hah!" Harry almost knocked over his wine. "You booed me for that same joke not thirty minutes ago, you hypocrite," he chided, righting the glass. 

Malfoy's expression went haughty. " _Your_ joke was crass and vulgar," he said, gesturing with his fork once again. " _Mine_ is witty because my name means dragon in Latin. Were you not aware of that? I recall you struggled with Latin in school," he added patronizingly. 

"Godrick, you are such a pompous arse!"

"I prefer to be called a man of particular refinement."

"I bet you do."

They shared a laugh and returned to their meals for a few quiet bites until Malfoy asked, "Is sleeping with men a relatively new development for you? I've only ever heard your name attached to women before."

Harry considered his answer as he bit into a juicy tomato. "It's not that new," he admitted, "but I've worked to keep it out of the papers. Almost everything they print about the women I'm supposedly seeing is rubbish. I've gone on a couple of public dates with witches in the past few years and that keeps the rumor mill running. The men I date are usually muggles; it's easier that way."

Malfoy frowned. "Except that you must hide a significant portion of your identity with them."

"I'm usually hiding one thing or another," Harry said dismissively. 

Malfoy's frown threatened to become a scowl but he caught himself and smoothed his features. "Do you consider yourself bisexual?" he inquired, rather than pushing the subject of muggles. He sounded genuinely curious, which is why Harry dignified the question with a response.

"I don't try to limit myself with labels. I had enough of those growing up." He leveled a significant glance at Malfoy then turned his attention to his wine glass, twisting it idly between his thumb and forefinger. "I prefer blokes in bed, but there are women that catch my fancy on occasion, so I just go with whatever I'm feeling at the moment." He looked back at the man currently sharing his bed. "What about you?"

"Oh, I'm definitely bent," Malfoy replied with a laugh. "There's no two ways about it. Pansy and I gave it a go back in the day to appease our families but there's no romance between us. The female form holds little appeal for me outside of raw aesthetics. When it comes to sex, I like hard planes and the rasp of stubble. ...And cock. That's something of a requirement." He gave a roguish grin. 

Harry chuckled from deep in his belly. He was having a genuinely good time, even with the tricky points in the conversation. "I have a different question for you," he broached. Malfoy looked attentively at him.

"Why Paris?"

"Ah." Malfoy set his half-full plate on the table but retained his wine. "I'd gone on holiday there before," he explained, voice tinged with nostalgia. "It's a beautiful place with a rich history and vibrant culture. And they have an excellent Healers training program. I wanted to go somewhere I could be myself, without the shadow of my family or my past looming over me. And I admit that part of my motivation was romantic," he smiled wryly. 

"In Paris, they know their wine and they know how to make love like it's an art form. I had kisses there that were practically a religious experience," his silver eyes sparkled. "There was one wizard in particular in training with me--he and I once stayed in bed for three full days, only leaving for food or to attend to our toileting needs."

Harry decided on the spot he didn't care to hear anything more about Paris.

"Why did you leave for Spain, then?"

Malfoy took a sip and turned so he was facing Harry more fully. "I wanted to try something new. Madrid has a very different pace than Paris and a night life like you wouldn't believe. It's the warm air and laid back attitude." He leaned over to 'whisper' conspiratorially, "The spaniards know the value of a quick and dirty fuck--that first names and a bed aren't necessary for two people to have a good time." He settled back against his own pillows. "I had a _lot_ of good times in Madrid," he winked. 

_Just how many 'good times'?_

Harry felt irrationally, retroactively jealous. Malfoy either didn't notice his glower or chose to ignore it. 

"Both cities are wonderful in their own ways and nothing like here," he concluded philosophically. 

"Why did you come back?"

Malfoy set his wineglass next to his plate and drew Harry's empty one away. "Because they are nothing like here," he repeated, emphasizing the words. "England is my home. After six years, I was ready to return and thought it had been long enough for tempers to cool to the point that it would be safe for me to do so. And I yearned for a decent cuppa."

Harry snorted.

"I'm glad you came back," he said softly after a moment. 

Malfoy's smile was small but no less brilliant for it.

"So am I," he replied. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guuuuuys! My new job has started. My old job hasn't yet finished. I am a zombie person. Sorry I've been so lame with the long waits between chapters! I have a cracky little fic going with PrinnPrick that you might want to check out if you're in the mood for something silly in the meantime. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Cue the Ron walking in on Harry and Draco en flagrante cliche!

For the following month, Harry and Draco spent almost every night--and one very memorable afternoon--together.

Draco ceased being Malfoy when he let Harry top the evening of their third stay-at-home date--with the caveat that the act was exclusively reserved for men with whom he was on a first name basis. Harry thought the deal fair, and by the end of the affair he was convinced he'd gotten the better end of the bargain. No pun intended.

It had been surprisingly easy to make the mental switch after he'd gotten used to the feel of Draco in his mouth. ...Again, no pun intended. (But _, w_ _ell_.)

Ron was not having as easy a time with the development. Particularly not after the less-than-optimal way he'd just found out about it: stumbling upon Harry and Draco in a compromising position in the office they shared as partners.

(Draco had come as a surprise during Harry's lunch break with the intention of 'christening' the office as his had been christened after the successful reattachment of Harry's thumb and forefinger Monday last. Parkinson had had a field day.)

"Have fun with that," Draco whispered cheekily, doing up his trousers, pressing a quick kiss to Harry's mouth, and abandoning him to his fate.

Ron's eyes widened comically and his colour went from yellow jaundiced to pea soup green. Harry sighed.

"So...um...Draco and I are dating," he began awkwardly, shuffling where he stood like a naughty schoolboy who'd been caught out.

Ron recovered enough to give him a withering expression. "I gathered."

In defense of Harry's statement, he and Draco could have been shagging without dating, but he wisely refrained from pointing that out. He wasn't sure what else to say, however.

"How long has this been going on?" Ron demanded, folding his (beefy) arms across his (broad) chest.

There was no sense in lying.

"Since I broke my ankle," Harry admitted.

He could tell his partner was doing some mental calculation by the furrow of his brow. Ron nearly gasped when he figured it out. "Bloody _hell!_ That was only the second time you went to him!" he exclaimed, affronted. "It didn't exactly take him long to weasel into your pants, did it?" he added, pointing an accusing finger.

Harry forced an even reply although his anger rose sharply at the implication and tone. "Which one of us are you criticizing then? Or is it both? Because it isn't like he got into my pants without me noticing."

Ron pulled a face but his aggressive posture softened. He dragged a hand over his nose and mouth with a beleaguered exhale then stomped to his chair to have a seat. Harry appreciated that the larger man was no longer looming--it had made him feel tense and defensive.

"Can you walk me through the steps, mate?" Ron pleaded, sounding more baffled than anything. "I knew you were happy with him as a Healer but how did you go from that to--" he blanched, glancing at the scene of the crime: the lumpy couch that occupied one wall. " _You know._ " He gave Harry a searching look. "I mean, it wasn't that long ago that you were dead set against the idea of him treating you, let alone..."

Harry sat in his own chair and thought about his reply. Ron had a point: things between him and Draco had progressed almost alarmingly quickly and practically without him even noticing. He'd realized as much just last week when he very nearly asked Draco _out_ to dinner.

The words had been on the tip of his tongue but he'd got cold feet and offered to grill salmon instead.

It wasn't that he worried Draco would say no, he knew he wouldn't (because Draco had already made his opinion clear; but he wasn't pushy about it, which Harry greatly appreciated). Rather, Harry had to be certain he was ready to face the public scandal that would ensue. And he needed to tell his loved ones beforehand. He didn't want them finding out about his first significant boyfriend from the ruddy _Prophet_.

If he'd had his druthers, Ron wouldn't have found out the way he did, either, but the kneazel was out of the bag so he had to figure out how best to salvage the situation and answer the question.

"Well, I mean, have you _seen_ him?" he joked, just to see his friend's reaction.

It was priceless.

Ron looked as though he might sick up in his mouth.

"Ok, fine. Besides that," Harry snickered.

He cast his gaze about the room, collecting his thoughts. "So I went to visit him," he began, returning his focus to Ron. "You and Hermione talked me into it, if you recall," he added archly, leaning back in his seat and cradling his head in his linked hands. "He was polite and professional. Well, mostly anyway. And he was sort of, I don't know…charming. Like, funny and not such a prat. I mean, he's still a prat. But a more likable one."

 _Way to make a compelling case, Harry,_ he thought with a frown.

"Anyway," he dropped his hands and leaned forward, apprehension making him antsy, "that was the end of that visit. I didn't really think anything more about it except that I appreciated him keeping his word. And then a couple months later I broke my ankle and went to see him again. And then I sprained it two days after that and went to see him **again**  and he kind of flirted with me. And I kind of flirted back. And one thing sort of led to another and here we are." He held out his arms to indicate the all-encompassing nature of that statement.

Ron glowered. "That is a shite explanation and you know it," he declared. "How did you go from shagging--which, by the way, aren't there rules against that kind of thing?--to dating?"

"Mutual agreement?" Harry shrugged. "I don't know, Ron," he sighed, pulling at his fringe. "He wanted exclusivity and commitment and so did I. It's been a while since I've seriously dated anyone in the wizarding community. It's nice being able to, you know, do spells and stuff in front of him. And I like him." Rather a lot. 

He'd always had a tendency to become infatuated hard and fast, and the troubled history he and Draco shared only seemed to propel them deeper, as it opened the door for the kinds of difficult conversations he usually avoided with significant others. Draco didn't accept his denials and avoidance--he required Harry to talk about himself if he wanted to learn more about Draco (which he did). He also rewarded him handsomely in the bedroom for self-disclosures. Slytherin bargaining tactics were formidable.

"You're happy?" Ron asked incredulously, as if the answer couldn't possibly be yes. 

"I am." (He was.)

Ron exhaled, looking resigned. "I'm not exactly thrilled," he replied. "But your happiness is what matters most, mate." He leaned forward to earnestly implore, "Just promise me there'll be no more shagging in the office."


	11. Chapter 11

Harry firecalled Hermione after smoothing things over with Ron, figuring he may as well tell everyone now rather than putting his friend in the awkward position of keeping a secret from his wife and family.

"Huh," was all she said at first, sporting a set of creases between her brows as she considered the revelation. "I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose," she remarked after a moment (more to herself than anything).

"What? Why? Yes you should. It's very surprising," Harry maintained.

It was, wasn't it?

Hermione's expression didn't indicate so. Nor did her toneless and tight-lipped ' _Mhm_.'

"I assume Ron gave you the 'watch your back' speech?" she queried.

Harry nodded. "He did." (He heard that speech pretty much any time he dated someone Ron hadn't pre-approved.) "I informed him that the phrase has an additional layer of meaning when buggering is involved," he smirked, feeling quite pleased with himself. "Maybe now he'll consider retiring the bloody thing."

Hermione snickered.

Ron had been wonderfully accepting of Harry's fluid sexuality in general, but he had a strict 'don't tell me any details' clause. He couldn't fathom how anyone might find a man or his bits attractive and he didn't care to be enlightened; he was just grateful Hermione seemed to like him well enough.

"Did he tell you that it's your life and your right to do what you want with it?" she pressed, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear. (It sprung back out immediately.) 

She apparently had a mental list of questions to run through. Harry wondered how many were left. His anxiety rose the longer she went without expressing an opinion.

"Not in so many words, but yeah."

"Have you heard Malfoy use any slurs?"

"Only against me. Jokingly."

"When will you tell the rest?"

She meant the Weasleys. Harry was dreading that particular event but it had to be done.

He'd decided to make an announcement over dinner on Sunday--the collective reaction would likely be more explosive that way, but it would also be quicker, like ripping off a plaster. He hoped that Arthur's calming presence would help contain some of the more volatile individuals (namely Ginny). Ron and Hermione's support there would be invaluable.

"Sunday," he answered simply, knowing Hermione would have no trouble filling in the rest of the details.

She nodded her approval, curls bobbing along. She then took a quick breath to reply, "Well, I know it's serious if you're telling us. And he must be a changed man for you to have gotten this far." She flashed Harry a reassuring smile and concluded, "I look forward to meeting him anew."

There are benefits to being friends with someone so analytical she can reason her way through nearly a decade of bad blood in the course of a two minute conversation.

"Thanks, 'Mione," he smiled broadly.

"Of course, Harry," she answered, expression fond. It quickly turned calculating. "Bring him by the house sometime and we'll see how he is with kids."

\---

Draco was reading the paper on his sofa when Harry stepped through the Floo, dressed casually (casually for him, anyway) in a loose jumper, slacks, and socks.

"Why do you read that rubbish?" Harry asked sourly--not for the first time--while he made sure to brush any and all wayward bits of soot off his Auror robes (lest he make a mess of Draco's sodding impractical white furniture)

"So that I may keep abreast of what is happening in the world," Draco answered--also not for the first time--but he folded the paper up and set it aside just the same. "How'd it go with Weasley?"

Harry sat next to him and propped a booted foot on his knee to begin unlacing the uncomfortable footwear (which still hadn't been fully broken in after the unfortunate loss of his last pair). "He'll get used to it," he assured. "But he said no more shagging in the office."

Draco pouted. "Spoilsport. We weren't even shagging yet." Harry huffed a laugh as he pulled the boot off and set to work on the other one. "I plan to remedy that soon, you know," Draco added huskily, already setting to work on the clasps of his uniform with deft fingers and a roguish smile.

"I'd hoped you might," Harry grinned. 

He dropped the second boot with a heavy thunk and shrugged out of his robes while Draco rose up to straddle his lap and set about undoing the buttons of his shirt.

"So eager," he noted wryly, sneaking his hands under Draco's jumper. "Did you miss me?"

"I missed your cock," Draco corrected, making Harry snort.

"You say the sweetest things."

Draco smirked then silenced him with a bruising kiss. Harry groped his sinuous back and thrust against him. 

By the time Draco had gotten him half undressed, he was fully hard. "I'm not the only one who's eager," he noted smugly.

Harry nipped his jaw. "It's no secret that you turn me on," he retorted, voice dropping into its lowest register.

"I beg to differ," Draco countered airily. "It's a rather well-kept secret, in fact."

Although he couldn't see Draco's face, Harry knew the lightness in his tone was deceiving. He looped his arms around Draco's waist and sat up to look him in the eye. He then told him about the conversation with Hermione that afternoon. When he finished, Draco carelessly dismissed, "Weasley would have told her anyway," but he was fighting a smile. (Being contrary for contrary's sake, as usual.)

Harry thought he might earn a real smile with his next announcement.

"Well I plan to tell everyone else at family dinner this week and then take you out on Monday to celebrate. Assuming I survive that long." 

Draco went still and looked searchingly at him for a long moment, assessing his sincerity, most likely. Harry held his gaze and was rewarded with Draco's sweetest, most genuine smile--a wee thing that barely showed any teeth but went all the way to his deep, grey eyes and made Harry warm inside and out.

He couldn't _not_ taste that smile.

He tightened his arms to pull Draco closer and caught his lips in a soft, slow kiss. Draco melted against him, gentle and pleased.

"I don't suppose you want to come with me?" Harry asked after they broke apart, wearing a comically beseeching expression and knowing full well what the answer would be.

" _I'm_ not the one with a death wish," Draco scoffed.

Harry laughed. He'd expected as much. Draco wouldn't be able to get out of those dinners much longer, however; not after things were 'official.'

"Molly's making ham," he added significantly, as if that would be enticing.

Draco hated ham.

"Blech," the grown man grimaced (like a five-year-old), shaking his head in disgust. He tapped Harry's chest and declared, "Tell me when she's making that chocolate cake you brought back two weeks ago and we might be in business."

Harry smiled. That shouldn't be hard to arrange. 

Draco's bony arse had begun digging into his thighs and it seemed like shagging was no longer imminent, so he maneuvered out from under him until they were seated side-by-side. His feet tingled unpleasantly as circulation returned.

Draco slouched to rest his head on Harry's shoulder and took his hand into his lap, lacing their fingers together. 

Harry'd noticed early on that Draco seemed rather touch-starved--usually he wasn't content unless there was contact in at least two different places. Having experienced a dearth of physical affection himself growing up (or affection of any kind, really), Harry didn't mind accommodating... except when Draco wanted to smother him in bed, in which case he was made to choose blankets _or_ snuggling so that they didn't boil alive beneath the duvet. 

"I've been waiting for the right time to tell you," Draco began disingenuously. What he really meant was that he was waiting for a time to tell Harry, who was becoming quite adept at translating Slytherin bullshit, when he thought he wouldn't be mad about whatever Draco was about to say.

"Mother knows," he admitted, lifting his head to face Harry. "Which means my father will know shortly--if he doesn't already--so you probably shouldn't open any suspicious-looking packages or letters from unknown senders. Just as a precaution."

Harry was not in the habit of accepting dubious post (there'd been too many run-ins with unhinged fans for that). He was more troubled by the apparent ease with which Lucius might accomplish an assassination attempt than the threat itself. 

"You father is in a maximum security cell on Azkaban," he countered incredulously. "How much could he possibly do from there?"

"You'd be surprised," was all Draco said, and in full seriousness.

He made a mental note to look into a security breach on the island and asked, "How did your mum find out?" (He wasn't bothered by the fact, just curious; he hadn't forbidden Draco from telling anyone but as far as he knew Draco had kept it between himself and Parkinson as a courtesy to Harry).

"She cornered me over changing our standing Monday dinner date to a Tuesday lunch date instead," he explained (sort of). "Speaking of which, you should probably join us for one of those soon or my spiteful Father will be the least of your worries."

Harry's stomach sank. Narcissa was not to be trifled with, he knew. If he was going to lunch with her, he needed to know how frosty of a reception he should expect.

"How'd she take the news?"

Draco smirked, eyes twinkling. "She's probably redecorating a guest room in the Manor for you as we speak."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 chapters left, I think. Hypergraphia needs the early warning ;)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst ahead but don't fret, the kids are gonna be ok.

"You should have a sliding fee scale so that anybody can afford to see you," Harry proclaimed while Draco carefully checked to make sure his brains weren't still spilling out his ears. (That had been a particularly nasty curse.)

He idly swung his feet where they dangled off the side of the exam table as Draco tilted his head to the right and left using fingertip pressure on the back of his skull.

He didn't hear any sloshing. That seemed like a good sign.

"I donate to four different charities and volunteer for a fifth," Draco responded dismissively, brow furrowed in concentration. "Why should my business be run like one, as well?"

Harry's interest was piqued. He knew about the donations already--they were a matter of public record--but the volunteer work was news to him. "What charity do you volunteer for?" he asked, intrigued. 

"Médecins Sans Frontières."

"Doctors Without Borders?" Harry translated after a moment of struggle. " _Really_?"

Draco frowned. "Yes, really."

He had a great many more questions, but seeing as Draco was currently ensuring his brains were properly sorted, he figured he should probably stop distracting the Healer and settled for declaring (with a dreamy sigh and everything), "You're pretty amazing, you know that?" 

Draco peered inside his left ear, then his right. "I do," he replied inattentively, without so much as a smirk.

Harry's buoyant mood deflated instantly. Something was wrong.But he didn't know what. 

Draco tapped his wand to Harry's forehead and muttered an incantation that made his ears buzz angrily. It reminded him of the time he'd climbed a tree to escape from his vindictive cousin and Dudley threw a rock at a beehive near his foot in retaliation. (Harry was stung 14 times and had to be rushed to the hospital; he then spent 3 days locked in the cupboard for 'causing trouble'.) The harsh sensation in his ears dissipated after a few seconds.

The harsh memories did not.

Draco made notes on his chart while Harry shook his head to clear it.

"You should be fine now," he declared without looking up, "but I'm not authorizing you to go back to work for at least four days."

" _Four?_ " Harry whinged. _It may as well be an eternity._

"Yes, four," Draco retorted sternly, dropping the chart with a clatter on the marble countertop. "You're lucky I'm not making it a whole week," he chided.

Apparently he didn't think Harry was taking him seriously enough because he continued, more stridently now, "You had grey matter coming out of your fucking _ears_ , Harry. You could have died!" He threw up his hands and paced the small room.

Harry watched quietly from his perch. He could tell Draco wasn't finished.

Draco came to stand in front of him and took on a note of exasperated pleading. "Will you at least _consider_ that cushy desk job they keep offering you?"

_Ugh. Not this again._

"That's as good as retirement, Draco," he argued, feeling defensive. It seemed that everyone wanted him to take the bloody promotion and no one cared one wit for his opinion on the matter. "I'm not ready to quit the field."

"Are you ready to die, then?" Draco snapped, leaning aggressively into his space. "Because that is what will happen. _Sooner_ rather than later," he poked Harry hard in the middle of the chest. "Weasley won't always be there with a spell to save your arse and I might not be able to put you back together when that day comes."

Harry shoved himself off the table, forcing Draco to take a step back. They kept having this fight and he was bloody sick of it.

"I love my job," he said with finality. "And I'm not quitting. If it bothers you so much, maybe I should find a new Healer."

Draco crossed his arms, his face shuttered. "That might not be the only new thing you should find then," he answered darkly.

Harry ignored the clawing panic that statement engendered and pushed past Draco to storm out of the room, carried on a swell of anger and indignation. He headed straight for the Floo but Parkinson blocked his way, wearing a murderous scowl. 

"Stop right there, you fucking fucker," she snarled, holding a taloned hand palm out.

He was going to force his way around her but she grabbed him by the front of his robes and reeled him in until they were nose to nose. (She was deceptively strong for being such a petite thing.)

He glowered. Parkinson was unmoved. Which was novel--his glower could make even hardened criminals cower.

"He's fucking _worried_ about you, you insensitive fucking prick," she hissed, brown eyes flashing warning. "Do you have any idea what it does to him when you get rushed in here on death's door? No, you don't. You just skip off on your merry way to stupidly risk life and limb once again while I'm here to pick up the pieces."

She took a breath, her first in that whole tirade. "He can't keep doing this," she stressed, an undercurrent of concern accompanying the white-hot fury.

The acrid taste of guilt rose in the back of Harry's throat. He knew Draco didn't like how often he was hurt because of work, but Draco had never let on that it was seriously upsetting to him.

...Or maybe he had. Maybe that's why they kept having this fight.

Harry thought about how he would feel if something awful happened to Draco and his stomach churned sickeningly. He looked back over his shoulder at the open exam room door and slumped in defeat.

"I'll talk to him," he said quietly, resignedly, turning back to Parkinson.

"You had better," she threatened, releasing him with a sneer of disgust. "You don't even _want_ to know how many testicle-specific hexes are in my repertoire."

Harry quickly checked to make sure her wand wasn't in her hand. Satisfied that his bollocks weren't in immediate danger, he straightened his robes and returned to the exam room (keeping Parkinson in his peripheral vision the whole way, just in case). What he saw when he reached the door made his heart constrict painfully: Draco was seated in the chair, doubled almost all the way over with his head in his hands.

He cleared his throat and Draco startled, sitting bolt upright.

"I thought you'd left," he said tightly, gathering his dignity around himself like armor.

"I tried to," Harry admitted with a small, rueful smile, "but your attack chihuahua got me."

Draco looked confused. "My attack _what_?" He moved to rise.

"Chihuahua. It's a muggle dog breed. They're tiny and mean and think they're in charge." _Not the point, Harry; focus._ "Never mind. Can I come in?"

Draco was conflicted, but he relented after a painfully long moment.

"Close the door behind you," he directed with an imperious wave of his hand. Harry did and came to stand close enough for him to touch if he wanted to.

Draco put his hands in his lab coat pockets, frowning. Harry's eyes skimmed over his face; he noted, with no small measure of relief, that Draco hadn't been crying. The lines around his mouth and eyes were drawn and tight, however. 

"So..." he said, rocking back on his heels, unsure how to start. "Sorry for being an insensitive prick."

(Parkinson seemed to have the right of it.)

Draco arched an eyebrow. "Did Pansy tell you to say that?" he asked skeptically. 

Harry chuckled. "Not as such," he answered, scratching the end of his nose, "but she helpfully pointed out I was being one."

"Hm."

Draco openly appraised him, drawing his hands out of his pockets to fold them loosely in the crooks of his elbows.

"Tell me," he instructed in a dry, pedantic tone, "in what _way_ have you been an insensitive prick?"

Harry snorted, just a light puff of air through his nostrils. He had the passing thought that if he didn't give a good answer, he might have to write an essay on the topic.

After several seconds of deliberation, he replied, "I haven't appreciated how difficult it must be for you worrying about me all the time." 

With a knot of anxiety sitting heavy in his gut, he elaborated, "I don't usually stress about it when I get hurt because I assume a Healer is going to be able to fix me--it's one of the ways I take magic for granted, I guess. Even with the close calls, I pretty much stop worrying as soon as I'm patched up. And I have complete confidence in your ability to do that," he added sincerely. 

Draco's expression remained impassive.

Stalling, discomfort rising, Harry rubbed a hand over his thigh and coughed twice. He really didn't want to say the next part, but he knew he needed to.

"Sit?" he requested, motioning toward the chair Draco had previously occupied.

Draco graciously did and Harry seated himself on the ground in front of him, back pressed against his shins. It was easier for him to talk about unpleasant things if he didn't have to make eye-contact while he did so and Draco was tolerant of his idiosyncrasies. He began carding his fingers through Harry's hair while he waited for him to start talking. (Always appreciated, but extra nice just then because of his splitting headache, a parting gift from the curse). Harry leaned into the touch and drew a fortifying breath.

"I don't have a death wish," he asserted, because he felt it was worth reiterating. "But I know I am probably too careless about taking injuries." His unfocused gaze fixed on the ficus, hands fidgeting in his lap. The light scratching on his scalp served to ground him. "I was kind of desensitized to them when I was a kid," he admitted with a pang of...something. (He'd never examined that feeling closely enough to be able to label it accurately.) "Honestly, I had to be, or I wouldn't have been able to do the things I did. If I'd been scared of bumps and bruises, I never would have left the relative safety of the dorms."

He rested his head against Draco's knobby knees and went on, "I've just sort of accepted that they go with the territory of my job, as well. But I know they don't have to. At least not to the degree or frequency that they happen to me." He'd heard that line of reasoning often enough and from enough different sources to acknowledge it as truth. "When I thought about how I would feel if you were badly injured or worse..." Harry choked, emotion clogging his throat. "Godrick, it would _wreck_ me, Draco."

Above him, Draco took a shuddery breath and his hand went still. Harry turned sideways so he could look up at him, overcoming his unease for the sake of what he was about to say. Draco's mouth was a thin line, his eyes shone.

"I can't promise I won't get hurt," Harry said solemnly, "but I will try to be better." He squeezed Draco's shin. "I don't want to have to find a new Healer. And I really don't want to try finding a new you."

Draco shut his eyes and laughed once at the absurdity of his (heartfelt) statement. When he returned his gaze to Harry, it was with a small smile.

That seemed like a good sign.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left. Probably.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad news: This chapter is rough. Possible trigger warning for a grisly injury and angst. (Story tags have been updated accordingly.)
> 
> Good news: There's going to be another chapter after this one...because why should I start adhering to my never-accurate story length predictions now?
> 
> Note: Switching things up for story telling purposes. This chapter is Ron's POV.

Ron threw himself behind the overturned table and scrambled until his back was pressed against the wood. His heart hammered in his chest but he kept his outward demeanor calm. "I count six," he whispered, panting for breath.

Harry leaned out of their shoddy cover to fire off a spell. "Same," he replied, expression stony. He dropped next to Ron with a jostle of shoulders.

Ron did not like those odds.

The warlocks were moving into position, hurling random curses to keep them pinned down. He and Harry would be surrounded in a matter of moments. They'd been given bad information: they expected two, maybe three wizards holed up in the cave. He wondered if it was an honest mistake or if they'd been set up.

A spell interrupted his thoughts, winging the edge of the table and creating a shower of splinters. The question would have to wait until they were no longer in immediate danger. He sent a hasty Patronus to headquarters requesting immediate back up.

He and Harry had been in worse spots, he reminded himself. They would just have to hang on until reinforcements arrived.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and cast a shield charm just in time. The green-tinged spell that had been headed straight for him fizzled out harmlessly on the protective bubble. Harry braced his arm on Ron's chest and took out the warlock with an angry red stunner.

"Five," he said gruffly, updating the count as he ducked back into cover.

Ron nodded acknowledgement. That number was better, but still not great. Their shite position and the fact they'd been caught flatfooted had them at a major disadvantage.

He noted that Harry seemed to be favouring his right side. Bloody idiot must have taken a hit in the opening volley and hadn't bothered mentioning it. Fan-fucking-tastic. Now Ron would have to work twice as hard to make sure the reckless twat didn't get himself killed.

As if on cue, the table was struck with powerful _reducto_ that sent the partners sprawling. Ron rolled on his shoulder and sprung to his feat, shaking wood shards out of his hair as he did so. He cast another _protego_ and assessed the situation with a quick visual sweep. Harry was crouching at his 7:00. Four warlocks were grouped in the 9:00 to 11:00 range.

_Shit. Where was the fifth?_

No time to look. Curses flew. Ron lobbed a freezing spell that went wide because he was forced to jump sideways as he cast it to avoid an acid hex that burned straight through his shield. Harry managed to disarm one of the warlocks and snapped his wand, leaving four armed (but only three of them accounted for).

Breathing heavily, Ron sprinted to Harry's position and put his back to him, hoping to prevent a sneak attack from the missing warlock.

Harry was working on something big. His teeth were gritted, sweat beaded on his forehead, and his wand sliced through the air in unfamiliar flicks and whorls as magic and ozone built around them. The hair on the back of Ron's neck stood on end. He cast a tripping jinx, a stunner, and _incarcerous_ in rapid succession to buy his partner time.

One of the warlocks went down. The others scattered.

The ground began to rumble. Dust and pebbles rained down from the ceiling. _I hope you know what you're doing, mate,_ Ron thought anxiously. Harry unleashed the spell with a shout and a prison of earth rose up from the cave floor, hemming their adversaries in.

Ron threw his fist in the air and crowed in triumph. "Bloody brilliant!" he cheered, turning to Harry...just as the unaccounted warlock drilled him in the back with a hissing black and red curse.

Time slowed almost to a standstill.

Ron watched in horror as his best friend's eyes widened in shock, then filled with pain. He grounded the smirking warlock with an instinctive and vicious stunner, even as he was sprayed with an improbable amount of Harry's blood.

Harry's eyes rolled backwards and he crumpled to the ground, collapsing into a sickening pool of his own intestines.

Ron swallowed down the co-mingled vomit and fear that filled his mouth and cast the most powerful stasis charm of his life. "Don't you fucking _dare_ die on me, Harry!" he growled, kneeling to pull the man onto his lap for the riskiest apparation he'd ever attempted.

_St. Mungo's or Malfoy's. St. Mungo's or Malfoy's._ Godrick, he didn't know!

There wasn't a second to spare. Making a hasty decision, Ron fixed in his mind the image of their destination and willed his magic to take them there. " _Please_..." he pleaded in anguish as they tumbled through the disorienting crush of time and space. 

The moment he felt solid ground beneath his feet, he bellowed Malfoy's name. He was keeping his panic at bay, but only just. 

The look on the Healer's face when he took in the sight of them nearly caused Ron lose it, but Malfoy steeled himself and began barking out orders as he cast a battery of status and diagnostic charms, levitating Harry onto a conjured stretcher. Ron was beyond grateful for him taking charge.

"Pansy, call St. Mungo's," Malfoy instructed authoritatively. "Have them ready a bed in Spell Damage. I can't do this alone."

The room spun and Ron's legs threatened to give out. 

He'd made the wrong call. 

Merlin, it was fucking life or death and he'd made the wrong call.

Hyperventilating, vision greying at the edges, he prayed to any god that would listen that his best friend wouldn't pay the ultimate price for his mistake.

" _Focus_ , Weasley!" Malfoy snapped, effectively capturing Ron's attention and holding it in an iron gaze. "There's a blood replenishing potion in the cabinet above the sink. It's in a green bottle with a cork stopper. I need it now."

Ron dashed to get it with limbs that felt like rubber.

Fortunately, the potion was exactly as Malfoy had described. He ran back to the Healer, nearly fumbling the bottle in the pass. Malfoy caught it adeptly and unstoppered it with his teeth, pouring it down Harry's throat and casting a spell to make him swallow. 

Harry was pale as death and completely unresponsive.

"Mungo's is ready!" Parkinson called from the Floo, where a static green fire indicated the connection was being held open for emergency travel.

Malfoy put his hand on Ron's shoulder. "Your stasis charm held up well through apparation," he said compellingly. "Can you do another to get us to the hospital?" He glanced at Harry and his expression faltered. "I need to focus on keeping him as stable as possible and I won't be able to do that if I'm trying to sustain a stasis at the same time."

Ron was exhausted and his magic badly depleted, but he would bleed himself dry if it meant saving Harry.

"I can do it," he answered with grim resolve.

"Good," Malfoy nodded, squeezing his shoulder once. "Let's go."

\---

The Spell Damage Ward was a flurry of activity when they arrived. A pair of mediwizards took the stretcher from them and rushed Harry into a room where the Healers were already prepped and waiting. Ron and Malfoy tried to follow but one of the mediwizards blocked the way saying, "Healers only."

Ron's stomach dropped. He felt paralyzed. Desperate. Out of a habit born in the last few minutes, he turned to Malfoy for direction and found the man looking shattered and hopeless, hands clutched tightly at his sides. 

_Harry is my best friend_.  _To Malfoy, he might be something more._

Taking a steadying breath and firming his own expression, Ron faced the mediwizard and declared, " _Healer_ Malfoy is Auror Potter's personal Healer and the only reason he's still alive. If he is barred from attending to his patient, you will have to answer to the Ministry." He crossed his arms threateningly over his chest and stared the man down until his resolve crumbled.

"Fine," the mediwizard relented, sniffing with disdain. "But only him."

Malfoy spared Ron one brief, shining look of gratitude before running into the room. Unwilling and unable to stand around doing nothing, Ron requisitioned the Floo to begin making calls. He notified Robards of Harry's condition and learned that Proudfoot and Savage had taken the warlocks into custody.

After ending the connection with the Head Auror, he Flooed Hermione's office and asked her to come through. She dropped her books where she stood and bolted into the flames. He didn't have to say anything more for her to know it was bad. 

With last of his defenses crumbling to ash, Ron collapsed sobbing into his wife's arms.

_Come on, Harry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a breath. Harry's in good hands.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what all the angst of the last couple chapters calls for? Fluff. In large quantities.

Harry felt as though he was underwater, but the substance was heavier than water. Darker. When he tried to breathe, it filled his lungs with burning cinders.

Everything hurt.

Gradually, he became aware of noises around him. Quiet beeps and hums. There was a comforting weight in his right hand. Hiswand?

He tried to remember where he was. Wisps of images floated to the surface of his mind. Ron. Spells. Shadowy figures. Draco's voice.

It didn't add up.

He fought his way to the surface, swimming hard against the darkness that enveloped him. The smell of antiseptic reached his awareness and he blinked at harsh fluorescent lighting, the sudden brightness making his eyes sting and water. 

St. Mungo's. Bloody buggering hell.

Harry suddenly realized he wasn't alone.

"Draco...?" he croaked, squinting at the blond head resting on the edge of his mattress.

Draco's head snapped up. " _Harry!_ " he gasped, a flurry of emotions racing across his features. 

He looked like shit. His hair was greasy, his eyes bloodshot--their lids red-rimmed, and there was pale, patchy stubble on his cheeks and chin.

Harry hadn't even known he was _capable_ of growing facial hair. 

By the process of deductive reasoning, he gathered that whatever had landed him in Mungo's was bad. Really bad. (And he probably looked worse than Draco.)

He remembered the fight now: The warlocks and the cave, being outnumbered. But the memories were hazy and disjointed. He couldn't think of when he'd been hurt. 

"What…happened?" He choked out of a throat that felt like sandpaper.

Draco's expression went flat. "Take a guess," he said, tone even flatter. 

"Almost...died?" Harry tried for an endearingly bashful smile but it probably came off like a grimace.

"What gave it away?" Draco asked sardonically. He didn't wait for an answer before launching into a scolding. "You almost gave me a heart attack, you irresponsible, bloody minded, foolhardy, careless bastard." 

Though the words were harsh, his voice was soft and he didn't release his stranglehold on Harry's hand. He swallowed, prominent Adam's apple bobbing. "It was the Entrail Expelling Curse, Harry," he said roughly. "And it was a damn near thing."

Harry's blood ran cold. That wasn't a curse people survived. 

How then had he done so? Was it possible it had only nicked him? Or been dampened by a shield? Was Ron ok?

He'd have to ask later--Draco was still talking.

"Which means you're either going to have to find a new Healer or get used to this place because I quit."

Harry snorted. He started to chuckle but it felt like his organs were being pulled apart when he did, so that put a quick stop to it. Still, he was giddy with the thrill of cheating death and having Draco at his side (and what was probably a potent cocktail of potions in his veins). 

"I understand," he replied hoarsely. He closed his eyes to rest a moment--talking was ruddy hard in his condition. "Would you reconsider your position if I told you...I'll take the promotion?" he inquired with great effort.

Draco's eyes widened fractionally (translation: he was floored). "Do you really mean that?" he whispered.

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "It's time." He took another laboured breath. "I thought I was great...but the greats...don't keep ending up here, do they?" He gave a rueful grin, chest rising and falling beneath the thin, scratchy hospital blanket.

Draco lunged to encircle him in a crushing hug; he gasped at the sudden, blinding pain. 

" _Sorry!_ Sorry," Draco apologized, jerking backwards hastily and looking sheepish. He settled for brushing Harry's matted hair off his forehead and taking up his hand again; Harry squeezed his fingers twice when he'd recovered from the assault and smiled his forgiveness. 

Draco gave a dignified little cough. "It pleases me to know that you've finally seen sense," he declared, affecting the haughty Malfoy reserve to cover up his emotional outburst. "Though I am unhappy it took such a close brush with death to bring that about," he qualified, looking down his nose at Harry, who rolled his eyes in response. 

Draco smirked and Harry felt that all was right in the world.

...Until Draco glanced at their hands and his expression fell. 

He looked like he had something to say but he hesitated. Harry's anxiety spiked.

Draco wasn't about to break up with him, was he? Or, shit, had something happened to Ron, as well?

"I'm afraid I've got more bad news," he said eventually, ominously. Harry held his breath, heart filled with dread over what could come next. " _This_ made it into the papers," Draco explained, indicating their joined hands.

Harry exhaled, slightly dizzy.

Well, no big surprise there, really. He was in St. Mungo's. He had nearly died (again) in a grisly fashion and Draco, his ex-Death Eater _boyfriend_ , apparently had slept at his hospital bedside. That scoop was going to make someone's career, and a Mungo's employee had likely made a tidy sum selling it. But for once in his life, he didn't mind. Not terribly, anyway.

"Just means they saved me the trouble of taking out a full-page advert to announce it," he quipped, almost shrugging but thinking better of it at the last moment. (The casual gesture would probably re-rupture his spleen or something.)

Draco's curious, clever eyes scanned Harry's face for any trace of upset. There was none to be found. Harry smiled broadly until the other man relaxed.

"You mean I don't get my advert?" he joked with an exaggerated pout.

Harry chuckled--big mistake- _-_ andcame to a momentous decision.

"I'll do you one better..." he wheezed, rubbing the stitch in his side. "I'll give those bottom-feeders the interview they've been hounding me for and set the record about us straight." He replayed the words in his head. "Or, you know," he amended with a wink.

Draco ignored the pun (as usual). "You don't have to do that," he contended, earnest but sounding touched all the same.

"Have they been saying awful things about you?"

Draco's silence was as good as an affirmative.

"Then yes I do," Harry proclaimed, resolve unswerving.

" _Auror Potter_ ," drawled a voice heavy with disdain from the vicinity of the doorway. Healer Dennis. Ugh. "How good of you to grace our humble institution with your presence once again," Dennis sneered, striding in like he owned the place.

Harry glared, his hackles up. Dennis turned to Draco with a barely concealed scowl, "Why didn't you alert me the moment he awoke, Healer Malfoy?" (He said the title like it was an insult and Harry resisted the urge to singe the prat's eyebrows off.)

"Because he and I were having a _private_ conversation, Dennis," Draco retorted smartly, dispensing with the other Healer's title. "Not that anyone in this hospital knows what privacy is." 

Dennis glowered. Draco held his stare unflinchingly until the Healer scoffed and returned his attention to Harry.

"You have been gravely injured, Auror Potter," he wasted his breath informing Harry. "You are only alive today because of the tremendous effort of St. Mungo's staff--" Draco cleared his throat obtrusively. "And your personal Healer," Dennis begrudgingly amended. Draco gave him a shark's smile: no warmth and far too many teeth.

Harry fought not to laugh.

"That's great," he interrupted the obnoxious git, impatient to be rid of him, "but all I want to know is when I can go home."

"And when we can fuck," Draco interjected cheekily.

Harry laughed hard enough to feel something inside him pull sharply (and maybe pop). Dennis looked like he couldn't decide which one of them he hated more.

"You must remain overnight for observation," came his tight-lipped reply. "You may be released into the care of your..." he glanced contemptuously at Draco, " _Healer_ after that, provided your recovery is progressing appropriately."

Harry turned to Draco, refusing to acknowledge the sickening pain in his gut because to do so would mean submitting to one of Dennis's clammy-handed exams and possibly a longer stay.

"What do you say Healer Malfoy," he smirked, "Will you take good care of me?"

Draco's mischievous expression turned grave. His grey eyes pinned Harry, who promptly forgot all about the other man in the room, to the spot. His answer, when it came, was quiet and sincere:

"Always."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the story proper, but I could probably be persuaded to add an epilogue...
> 
> ...who am I kidding. It's already written in my head XD


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without further ado: 
> 
> Kinky. Doctor. Sex.
> 
> (You're welcome.)

_Epilogue. Some years later._

_\---_

Harry stepped through the Floo in Draco's office. Pansy grinned when she saw him.

She looked him over, lips pursed and eyes narrowed in consideration, tapping a long, red nail to her mouth as she thought.

She twirled her index finger when she finished the frontal inspection so Harry would show her the view from behind. He performed a perfunctory spin, arms held out to the side, and Pansy nodded her approval with a salacious wink. (As well she should: she _chose_ the bloody outfit.) He felt ridiculous in trousers so tight they impaired his ability to walk but she'd insisted the effect was worthwhile. She ultimately won him over with the reminder that he wouldn't be wearing them for long.

"Your 7 o'clock is here, Healer Malfoy," she announced to Draco in a sing-song voice, obviously having way too much fun. 

"Thank you, Pansy" he called from the other room, casual as you please. "Do remind me, what was his name again?"

Harry huffed a self-deprecating laugh.

Pansy made a show of checking the appointment book. "That would be a Mr. Bond, sir," she answered, smiling like the cat that ate the canary. "First name James."

Harry shook his head in good humour. They would never let him live that one down.

"Ah, yes," Draco replied airily. "Very good. Send him in."

"The Healer is ready to see you now," Pansy notified Harry officiously, motioning towards the exam room door.

He went to move past her desk but she stopped him with a hand on his arm and stood to unbutton the second button on his shirt (the top one was already undone). Apparently satisfied with the absurdly slaggy look, she gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek. "Happy anniversary, love," she whispered.

"Thanks, Pans," Harry whispered back. He'd become inordinately fond of the evil shrew.

"I got a little something for you two," she said, nodding toward a shiny red gift bag on her workstation, dark bob swaying with the motion. The twinkle in her eyes made Harry nervous.

"I'll shut the Floo on my way out," she added, making her way to the fireplace, perfectly balanced on six-inch stiletto heels. "Don't forget--I expect a full report in the morning. You have until the afternoon if Draco keeps you up all night again," she offered magnanimously.

(Harry wouldn't be telling her a damn thing; she'd hear everything she wanted from Draco anyway.)

She tossed in a pinch of Floo powder, blew Harry a parting kiss, and stepped into the flames, which went out cold the instant she was gone.

After making sure the front door was locked and warded, Harry peeked in the gift bag and chuckled at its contents. _Cheeky bint._ He elected to leave it there for now and entered the exam room, where Draco waited (looking delectable in Harry's favourite of his work outfits--a slim-fitted, sharkskin grey shirt, black slacks that hugged his arse lovingly, and, of course, the ubiquitous lab coat).

"What brings you in today, Mr. Bond?" Draco-- _Healer Malfoy_ \--asked, setting aside the case file he'd been reviewing and peering at Harry over his thin-framed glasses. He'd stubbornly resisted getting them for ages (maintaining that one speccy git in the family was plenty), but Harry liked the way they looked, especially with Draco's hair tied back in a low tail as it was that evening.

He cleared his throat. "It's sort of a personal problem," he replied hesitantly, having little trouble conjuring the embarrassment his character felt since he was experiencing a good portion of it himself.

Draco smiled patiently. "I am a medical professional," he replied, the barest hint of amusement underlying his words. "There is almost nothing you could say that would shock or surprise me." He patted the exam table for Harry to sit. _Wanker_. "Tell me what's been troubling you."

Harry climbed onto the table with difficulty. The trousers were bloody impossible. Draco dragged his eyes away from them with the ghost of a smirk.

"Well..." Harry began. "The thing is--" he gave another nervous cough, "lately I've been having a bit of trouble... _getting it up_." (The last bit was half-whispered.)

"Ah." Draco nodded sage-like. "I imagine that would be quite distressing to a handsome young wizard like yourself," he remarked with equal parts sympathy and flirtation. Harry's lips twitched. "In order to get to the bottom of this situation, I will have to take a look at your equipment," Draco proclaimed, glancing pointedly at Harry's crotch.

Harry shyly crossed his legs (in part to hide the suspicious bulge developing there). "Is that really necessary?" he stammered. "Don't you have spells for that?"

Draco's slow smile was a dangerous thing. "Oh, I will cast, as well," he drawled, "but a diagnostic spell only gives half the information, at best. I find that a _thorough_ physical exam is often necessary to identify and treat most conditions." Harry shivered--a tiny bit of emphasis and the whole meaning of the sentence shifted. Draco waved a hand over his lap and prompted, "If you would be so kind..."

Harry rose and undid his belt and fly with unsteady hands. He pushed his trousers and pants down to the middle of his thighs and stood awkwardly with his bits on display.

Draco hummed appreciatively. "Has anyone ever told you you've got a lovely cock, Mr. Bond?" he purred, gazing down at Harry's (perfectly healthy) erection.

Harry couldn't help but chuckle at the reference to his 7th least favourite newspaper article. "Once or twice," he admitted modestly.

Draco laughed, breathy and warm. "Have a seat," he directed, gesturing at the ruddy exam table again.

Harry did with some difficulty, holding his trousers about his legs and clambering up.

Draco seated himself on his stool and rolled over, coming to a stop in front of Harry's legs, which he spread with a hand on each knee. "This trouble you've been having," he said clinically, "does it happen by yourself, with a partner, or both?"

"Both," Harry answered, making the details up as he went along.

"Have you found that enough direct stimulation can overcome your 'wand's' hesitation?" Draco inquired further. His tone was dry and professional, which helped Harry to answer straightforwardly and not think about the absurdity of their little game. ( _Draco's little game. It was all his idea. Deviant_.)

"Sometimes. But sometimes it's completely uncooperative." That bit was true, but it didn't happen often enough to be a medical concern--it was just part of life.

Draco had a wry twist to his mouth. "It seems to be doing all right at the moment," he remarked. 

Harry chuckled. "That it does."

Without warning, Draco slid his hands up from Harry's knees and grasped his cock, giving it a firm stroke.

"Healer Malfoy, what are you--" Harry gasped, unable to finish the question as Draco rubbed a palm over his sensitive cockhead.

"I have a very 'hands-on' approach to medicine, Mr. Bond," Draco smirked, voice low and seductive, "and unparalleled attention to detail. Those are among the many reasons I've had the highest satisfaction rating of any Healer in London the last three years running." He continued wanking Harry as he spoke. 

"Do you do this for all your patients?" he groaned, thrusting reflexively into Draco's hand.

Draco's smile was pointed. "Only the ones with gorgeous cocks who flush as prettily as you." He swiped a thumb over Harry's slit, making him grunt and buck. (So much for his backstory: he was hard as a rock.)

"It appears that perhaps the problem isn't intrinsic to you but rather a paucity of skilled lovers," Draco observed, his pedantic Healer's tone undermined by the hungry look on his face...and the fact he was jerking his patient off. "To be entirely certain, I am going to need to do an internal exam, as well," he proclaimed. Then added, "You may not be aware--the prostate is inexorably linked to male pleasure and sexual response."

Harry narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Inside he was giddy with excitement and his cock leaked like the Burrow's kitchen sink; it was a feat to respond in character.

"You're going to do _what_ now?"

"I'm going to give you a proper exam," Draco replied, arching a brow in challenge. "Trousers down and turn around. _Please_ ," he facetiously requested.

Harry snorted and complied, done with faking hesitation. He stood, dropped his trousers to the floor (good riddance), and bent over the exam table, bracing himself on his forearms. "Like this?" he smirked over his shoulder.

Draco's eyes were dark with lust. "Just like that," he murmured, trailing a gentle hand up the back of Harry's leg, around his arsecheek, and down over his crack.

Harry trembled and widened his stance, thrusting his arse in the air like a whore.

"I'm going to put my fingers in you now," Draco warned needlessly, clinging to his role. "You may feel some discomfort at first but it should subside quickly."

He coated his fingers in cold medical-grade lube and pushed two of them into Harry, who sucked in a breath at the sudden intrusion. Draco kneaded his hip soothingly and eased him open with tiny motions. As soon as Harry started to relax, Draco began working his fingers in and out.

" _Oh, Healer!_ " Harry moaned, hamming it up for Draco's benefit. (Also because it felt really bloody fantastic.)

"There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with your anatomy," Draco proclaimed with a breathy chuckle. "In fact, I would go so far as to say you're perfect."

Harry whined as fingers brushed tantalizingly near his prostate. "Malfoy," he growled, rocking back on Draco's hand, "if you don't fuck me right now, I'll sue you for malpractice."

Draco laughed and swatted him on the arse with his free hand. "What are you suggesting--that this is bad medicine?"

Harry propped himself on one arm so he could reach between his legs with the other and ease some of the aching pressure in his balls. "If you make me wait much longer," he panted, "then _yes_." He fisted his cock in his hand and pulled, moaning loudly.

"Salazar, Harry," Draco groaned, slipping out of character for the first time that evening. "You know I can't resist it when you act like a needy little slut."

"Then stop resisting," Harry ground out, headed toward climax whether Draco was ready or not.

He celebrated internally and slowed his wanking when he heard Draco fumble with his trousers--he didn't want to come yet and the naughty excitement of the game had him close. He groaned with relief (and a twinge of pain) when Draco pressed his hard length inside of him, inch by delicious inch.

"How do you want it?" Draco asked breathlessly, leaning over Harry's back to kiss the knots of his spine.

"Hard and fast."  _How is that even a question?_

Draco shivered on a groan and grasped Harry's hips in either hand. He fucked Harry's ass with a modicum of restraint until Harry was loose enough for him to move freely. As soon as that happened, he gave Harry exactly what he had asked for, fucking him so hard he lost his grip on the table and fell face first into the cushion. He couldn't do anything at that point but hang on.

The pleasure tightening inside him built to a crescendo and he urged Draco on with a stream of half formed filth. Bollocks slapping, fingers gripping hard enough to leave bruises, breath ragged, his chest and face pressed into the exam table, Draco's cock stretching and filling him, driving him to the edge while he chanted Harry's name like a benediction.

It ached. It burned.

It was perfect.

Draco's pace began to slip and stutter as he neared his own release. Harry grabbed his cock again and hurtled through his orgasm, making a mess of the table and moaning loudly. Draco followed close behind with a slamming thrust that buried him to the hilt. He whimpered as his cock spasmed hard enough to give Harry delicious, sparking aftershocks, prompting a final weak spurt from his flagging erection.

Draco stilled and collapsed onto his back, hot, sweaty, and gasping for breath. Harry enjoyed the comforting weight of his sated husband and laid there with a stupid grin on his face until his legs began to shake with the effort of supporting them both. He slapped Draco's thigh to make him get up.

Draco gingerly withdrew from his sore arse, making him inhale sharply. He missed the sensation of being filled almost immediately. Draco cleaned him up with a gentle spell, turned him over, and pulled him in for a long, slow snog. He smiled against Harry's mouth and Harry broke the kiss to grin at him.

"Better than last year?" he asked coquettishly, scooting backwards until he was seated properly on the table rather than balanced precariously on the edge.

Draco chuckled and came to sit beside him, so close their legs touched from hip to knee. He twined their adjoining arms together and replied, "Do you want the honest answer or the soppy one?"

Harry lifted an incredulous brow.  "They aren't the same?" 

Draco shook his head.

"Fine. I want both."

"Of course you do," Draco smirked. "You're _greedy_." He flicked the end of Harry's nose. "This year and last are apples and oranges--they can't be properly compared. I'm slightly biased toward this one since it was _my_ fantasy, but the thrill of coming midair with you was certainly memorable."

Harry grinned. "Are you _sure_ you don't want to do that again? I only almost crashed the broom once."

Draco laughed, shaking his head. "Once was more than enough for me, I assure you. Your next fantasy is certain to involve the risk of death and dismemberment, as well. They always do."

"Not _always_ ," Harry protested. (He could admit that it was a disproportionately high number, though; it was probably a good thing he'd gotten out of field work when he did).

Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You are touched in the head."

Harry shrugged carelessly. There was no sense arguing against facts. "You married me," he retorted, smirking. "Now what about my soppy answer?"

"Are you sure? It's really quite soppy," Draco warned.

Harry gave him a quick kiss, glasses bumping. "That's because you are a Hufflepuff in snake's clothing," he retorted affectionately. "I really don't know how you fooled us all for so long. But, yes, of course I'm sure."

Draco's eyes twinkled. He didn't dispute the claim, just turned to face Harry more fully and gazed deeply at him, tugging his arm onto his lap. Even though they looked ridiculous in their various states of undress, the atmosphere between them grew serious.

"Harry," Draco said, quiet and convicting, "every year with you is better than the last."

Despite his insistence the answer was untrue, Harry knew sincerity when he heard it. His heart swelled, as it often did for Draco. The only appropriate response was some serious snogging.

\---

Several minutes later, Harry remembered he had something to tell Draco when they broke apart for air.

"Pansy got us a gift," he grinned, running a hand through Draco's disheveled hair, dislodging the tie that held it back.  

"Oh?" Draco appeared interested, but cautious (a wise approach where Pansy was concerned). "What is it?"

Harry tried to fix a casual expression on his face. "A bottle of wine...and a jar of 'Eighteen Again'."

Draco tsked, offended. "As if we need that. I'll be ready for round two in five minutes or less," he asserted (with all the bravado of a man whose masculine pride has been wounded).

Harry snorted. "I'm sure you will, my virile young stud."

"Forty's hardly old," Draco countered tightly (like Harry had suggested otherwise).

Harry patted him consolingly. "You're absolutely right, sweetheart," he agreed. "And I plan to still be fucking you when we're 90 so there's nothing to worry about."

Draco's frown melted and he took up Harry's hand again. "Very well then," he said with a sly smile, "now that that's sorted, what shall we do with the rest of our evening, Future Minister Potter?"

Harry groaned in exasperation. "Would you cut that out? I haven't even decided if I'm going to run."

"Mhm," was all Draco said (with a bloody irritating knowing expression).

Smug bastard.

But he was _Harry's_ smug bastard.

And he wouldn't have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, darlings! <3


End file.
